In the Land of the Madmen
by Bob G. Leeman
Summary: the sequel to He Sleeps Under the Hill, featuring the continuing adventures of N'aethan, Ellyth and their companions after they are stranded... in the Land of the Madmen! Chapter 11 : The Nameless Ship - in which; N'aethan seeks out Feir, the Aielmen search for Roth, everyone else sets sail south... except Gen, who is revealed to be most mysterious! also... enter the Laughing God!
1. 0 : Prologue

**In the Land of the Madmen - Prologue**

"As you summoned me, Father, so I am come."

"It is good to see you, my Daughter. How fare your lessons?"

"They are tedious, Father. Tedious."

"Tedious but necessary, my Daughter."

"If you say so, Father…"

"I see a question in your eyes."

"You _always_ say that!"

"I do. I am six hundred and thirteen years old, and have, as a result, become somewhat set in my ways. Well?"

"Is it time, Father?"

"Time, my dear Daughter?"

"Time for me to go on a journey?"

"It is."

" _A journey from which none will wake, unto the shores of Lethe_."

"A journey from which you will most certainly wake, my Daughter. Do try to be less dramatic."

"I will try, Father. It was only a poem. A fragment of one of the Lost Verses."

"Indeed."

"But I don't want to go, Father! I want to stay here and protect you! The _souvraniene_ , the Madmen, they will be coming down from the Blight to destroy the world, I sense it... if they try to harm you, I will steal their souls and drink them dry!"

"You are being dramatic again, my Daughter."

"But it was what I was made for, Father! Why won't you let me go north to the wars? I could fight alongside my Brother!"

"That is much akin to what _he_ said, when he disobeyed me and left. Well, he serves a different Master now… or rather, Mistress. He is dead to me."

"Now who is being dramatic?"

" _Touché!_ "

"Tou- what?"

"A word from a long dead tongue, my Daughter."

"Never mind that, Father! Let me at least do something _useful_ with my existence!"

"Oh, but you _will,_ my Daughter. Though not now. Later."

" _When?_ "

"When this terrible Age is all but done, when the Dragon – praise his name! – is reborn."

"This whole thing stinks of prophecy."

"Most perceptive of you. But you always were the most perceptive of my children. Do you recall the Sister who came to visit you?"

"Deindre Sedai. She didn't wear shoes."

"She never does. The most accurate Foreteller in generations. She has seen you, many turns of the Great Wheel from now, has seen the part that you have to play…"

"I mistrust prophecy. But I trust my Father. What must I do?"

"Tell Jarn to pack your things. Tomorrow, Ledrin will fly us north to the ruins of M'jinn, in the remaining jumper."

"To what end? Archaeology?"

"Be not sarcastic, my Daughter."

"Sorry, Father! But it _is_ a trait I inherited from you."

"I suppose. Our true course takes us south, far south. To Larcheen."

"The Southern Continent? Is it even still there?"

"We shall find out. Our destination is the _Collam Aman_."

"The Dragon College? How exciting!"

"Not exactly how I would put it..."

"Most think it a myth."

"It is real enough. Once, I called it home. And incidentally, it is where your Brothers were born and raised."

"I _know._ I wish that I could have met them… especially Tro."

"Oh, but you shall certainly meet him, if all goes according to plan."

"Don't you ever get tired of it, Father?"

"Tired of what, my Daughter?"

"Being inscrutable!"

"No. Not particularly. Now come. There is a place awaiting you in the College, and then you will sleep."

"I will sleep. But who will awaken me?"

"The Gholam will wake you."

"Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"If it were, I would be smiling."

"I suppose you would, at that. But… _the Gholam?_ "

"Do not fear. I have instructed it to serve you and none other."

"I do not _fear_ the Gholam, Father. I fear nothing. I just don't _like_ it, that's all!"

"And yet, even the Gholam has a part to play. You will see."

"I will see. Honour to serve, Chaime Kufer Mors, Aes Sedai."

"Ah, now you know that you should not use my third name."

"I am well aware of that! But I will anyway. I shall do as I please."

"Then I thank you for the compliment, my Daughter."

"You're welcome, Father. So how will we get to the _Collam Aman?_ It is too far for the jumper and there are no sho-wings left…"

"The ruins of M'jinn contain a Portal Stone."

"A what?"

"You will see. Say your goodbyes to the _Da'shain_ and my Apprentices, you shall not see them, or the Black College, again."

"That is a shame. I shall particularly miss old Ledrin. But I _will_ see my Brother?"

"And fight alongside him, as is your wish. Remember, my Daughter, the War never ends. Not really."


	2. Chapter 1 : The Message

_**Gleeman Bob writes :** greetings Fanfictioneers! well, it has been a bit more than a year but I have been kind of busy with the Real World, as opposed to the Wheel World, and I put quite a lot of creative effort into He Sleeps Under the Hill as well as some other projects, so sort of burnt myself out a bit as far as the writing goes... the foolish Gleeman has been on hiatus! but now he is back, with a new story to tell. well, I couldn't exactly leave my characters stuck in Madman Land forever, that would be cruel and unusual._

 _In the Land of the Madmen will be a little different from its predecessor... for one thing, SHORTER CHAPTERS! LESS FLASHBACKS! MORE SEX & VIOLENCE! well, that last one might not necessarily be true, but ItLotM is designed to be a tad more user-friendly than my last extended opus. please R&R... go on! you know you want to!_

 _for those who haven't read HSUtH, there is now a brief summary to catch them up. if you HAVE read HSUtH (and may the Creator bless you for doing so!) then feel free to ignore what lies beneath and move on to Chapter 1 : The Message. Roth's ballad is called 'Message in a Bottle' and this is of course the title of a Police song, which makes him a bit of a plagiarist, but what can you do? Gleemen will be Gleemen, and he has always secretly admired the work of Master Gleeman Sting, so look on it as a homage._

 _as ever, respect and admiration for the Master of Master Gleemen, James Oliver Rigney Jnr / Robert Jordan. may the Hand of the Creator shelter him. and don't forget to..._

 _...Walk in the Light!_

* * *

 ** _He Sleeps Under the Hill summary_**

 _the young Aes Sedai Ellythia Desiama of the Blue Ajah, a Noblewoman of Amadacia, has a rare Talent - she can sense the presence of ter'angreal, even though she does not know what their function is. not much of a Talent, but better than nothing... with her Warder Atual Aendwyn of Far Madding and her friend, Shrinalla Tolamani of the Green Ajah, a feisty young woman from Falme, as well as her Warders Aebel & Blaek, twin brothers from Mayene, she journeys through the Westlands seeking lost ter'angreal with which to fight the Last Battle._

 _while sheltering in an abandoned stedding in Arafel from a Shadowspawn raiding party, Ellyth senses an ancient and powerful ter'angreal, deliberately hidden there thousands of years ago. it is a flattened crystal sphere - when Spirit is channeled into it, a flashing red light indicates a particular direction. back at the White Tower, her other friend, Rennetta Faltrey of the Brown Ajah and her Sea Folk Warder (and husband) Jabal din Sudim Lionfish, help her to discover that the crystal ter'angreal is the means to finding something hidden at the end of the Age of Legends - this, combined with a vision from Ellyth's test to become Accepted, as well as a reading from Elmindreda Farshaw of Baerlon, convince her that the crystal will lead her to a mysterious man who is also a weapon, someone who might tip the scales of Tarmon Gai'don in the Light's favour._

 _Ellyth and Atual set off to find their destiny, unaccompanied by Shrina and her twin Warders, who have already left for Illian to become Hunters for the Horn, the finding of which is something of an obsession for the young Green. after falling in with the redoubtable Aes Sedai Cadsuane Melaidhrin and assisting her in capturing the False Dragon Mazrim Taim, Ellyth and Atual are led by the crystal to the desolate and dangerous place on the far west coast known as World's End. unbeknownst to them, they are followed there by a small group of Shaido Aiel, led by one-eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai. the Shaido have been sent to the Westlands to find He Who Comes with the Dawn, and Cohradin is convinced that the Aes Sedai will lead them to him._

 _Ellyth's old enemy, the ancient Darkfriend Wilder Arachnae Kirikil, is aware of her plans and despatches a Shadowspawn horde through the Ways to capture her. in the final fighting, Atual is slain. Ellyth manages to locate a Stasis Box of the Age of Legends, hidden in an ancient Collam, and using the crystal, she wakes the occupant._

 _he is Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, He who Shields from the Shadows of Night, N'aethan for short. N'aethan is the Last Lightborn, a War-Construct created by the notorious Aes Sedai, Chaime Kufer Mors, to battle against the forces of the Shadow. his two older Brothers were created for the same purpose, both fell in the War. acting on the prompting of prophecy, Chaime sealed N'aethan in a Stasis Box to preserve him from the Breaking of the World, knowing that he would be awakened in time to fight in the Last Battle._

 _N'aethan has a variety of powers, he is very strong and fast, heals swiftly and, like a Gholam, stands immune to Channeling. after killing a Myrddraal and Draghkar sent to capture Ellyth, the two of them make their way outside, where they encounter the Shaido Aiel. they join forces, in order to fight their way out of the trap that is World's End. escape is impossible however, and they take refuge in an ancient Cenotaph that hides Chaime Kufer's forbidden laboratory. N'aethan is surprised to learn that the Aiel know of him from a children's fable - their name for him is Vron'cor, Nightwatcher. he does not reveal to them the truth concerning the Da'shain Aiel of the Age of Legends and their adherence to the Way of the Leaf. the Shadowspawn horde closes in on them._

 _fortunately, Shrina and Renn have not been idle in the meantime. both have had their separate adventures; Shrina, Aebel and Blaek have discovered the Horn of T'oph which summons ancient Sages, led by Ghoetam himself, to give advice. she would far rather have found the Horn of Valere, but that is not her destiny. she has also encountered Thaeus, Ellyth's younger brother, who has renounced his rank as a Lord Lieutenant in the Children of Light. he has a dark secret; like his sister he can touch the Source, and has begun to channel involuntarily. meanwhile, Renn and Jabal have travelled through the Ways, seeking the kidnapped girls from the White Tower; Nynaeve, Egwene, Elayne and Min. Renn wishes to bring her old enemy Liandrin to justice for the crime of novice-napping! unfortunately, this does not come to pass and after numerous detours, Renn and Jabal arrive in Falme._

 _it is here that Shrina, Renn and the Warders are reunited; they have learnt that Ellyth is in danger. with the help of the Sages, they discover her location. Shrina is a Watcher over the Waves, and with the aid of her cantankerous grandfather, they take ship to World's End, where they arrive just in time to rescue Ellyth, N'aethan and the Shaido Aiel. unfortunately, Arachnae Kirikil is a sore loser and uses her great powers to summon an enormous storm, which blows their small ship far to the north, where they are becalmed off the shore of the Blight. on the way they pick up a shipwrecked mariner, the Seanchan Bloodknife Mitsu, whose own vessel was wrecked in the storm._

 _chased by Sea Folk renegades and Darkfriends, they are run aground on a rock due to the intercession of a traitor in their midst, one of the Shaido who is a Shadowrunner, and murders Shrina's grandfather. Shrina avenges him. they await the end as a Shadowspawn army emerges from the Blight, waiting for the tide to go out so that they can attack the ship. it seems Arachnae's revenge is complete. fortunately, the discovery of a Portal Stone just beneath the receding waves gives them the opportunity to escape. unfortunately, the only other Portal Stone to which they can travel is located in the far south, where N'aethan was born. the whole ship and its occupants are transported to a clearing in the middle of a forest. they set out to explore this strange new land._

 _in due course, N'aethan, Ellyth and the others arrive at a vast ocean, stretching away to the north. Jabal reveals to them that they have come to the Land of the Madmen, a terrible place where the Breaking never ended and dangerous, insane male channelers abound, in addition to the savage inhabitants who attack strangers on sight. in the confusion, Thaeus takes the opportunity to leave the others, fearing that he will go mad and harm them - he wanders inland to seek his fate. Ellyth sends N'aethan to find him..._

 _it is the nine-hundred and ninety-ninth year of the New Era, and all are aware that the Dragon walks the land again, as he did before, as he will again, World without end._

 ** _GB_**

* * *

 _ ***** I am indebted to long-standing Fanfiction aficionado Syed for his idea concerning Ogier and sung-wood armour. I have used this invention and give full credit to him. I also named Duadh's rude parrot after him! anyway, it was his idea, not mine. blame him, not me!_

* * *

 _Kor Paendrag Athan moved soundlessly through the Ghost Forest, four hands of his finest hunters stalking to either side. They were on deep patrol in enemy territory and the dangers were many. In one hand Kor held a heavy war club, fashioned of teak and studded with shark's teeth. In the other, a mark of his status as one of the Blood; a rare steel weapon, a long knife, honed to razor sharpness. The pommel of the blade was solid gold, worn smooth by countless generations of hands clasping the hilt, but the stylised head of some great cat, like the wild felines that lived to the south, could still be made out – though with a mane of hair about the head. Kor did not know what a lion was, anymore than he knew that a distant ancestor of his had taken the knife from the corpse of one of Aldeshar's Golden Lions a thousand years before. He only knew that the blade was sharper than the flint and obsidian weapons favoured by his enemies, the savages and the followers of the Laughing God. Though it would have satisfied him to know that a soldier in the army of the Great Hawkwing had won such a trophy from an Officer in an elite regiment of his foes._

 _From up ahead came a low whistle and Kor froze, as did his hunters. Blowpipes were raised to lips, javelins hefted. Trisk appeared noiselessly through the brush, her long lance decorated with scalps held low so that it would not snag on any branches. She wore the same buckskin kilt and jerkin as the rest of them, her feet bare. She was his best scout and hence had the dangerous task of going first when they were in hostile territory. But despite the warning whistle, she did not seem wary, though it was hard to tell through the war-paint. If anything, she looked… perplexed._

 _Kor sheathed his knife and made a hand sign._

 _'_ Enemy? _'_

 _Trisk shook her head, her dark plaited locks of hair shifting from side to side. She considered a moment, then simply shrugged and beckoned. Clearly, whatever lay ahead, there did not exist a signal for… Kor raised a fist and pumped it in the air twice. As one, his hunters moved silently forward, following in his tracks._

 _In the clearing up ahead was something that should not have been there. Kor stared at it wordlessly, summoning memories of woodcuts in the rare crumbling tomes that were held back on the Island. They depicted the great ships that had brought his ancestors here. This craft was significantly smaller, he decided… and was in the middle of a clearing in the forest! The clearing that held the Everstone, at that. How had it got here? His hunters also stared. The painted eye on the black ship stared back._

 _Kor scowled. This was a mystery, and he did not much care for mysteries. It would have to be reported. The High Princess, may she never die, would wish to be informed._

 _Apat whistled softly. Though not as skilled as Trisk, the youth was still an excellent tracker. He pointed at the clear sign of several pairs of feet heading north, towards the Great Ocean._

 _Kor nodded. The Hawx would follow. They would solve this mystery._

* * *

 _There's a message in a bottle and it's heading out to sea;_

 _And I'm waiting, yes I'm waiting, for someone to rescue me._

 _But it's a great big ocean and my chances aren't so fine –_

 _Still, at least before I threw it in I drank the bloody wine!_

Message in a Bottle

by Roth Blucha, Gleeman

 **Chapter One * The Message**

 _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ , he who had once slept under the hill, stalked swiftly and silently through the forest, his strange eyes scanning the mossy ground ahead for the tell-tale signs left by the feet of Ellythia Sedai's wayward brother, Lord Whitecloak. Even without his particular ability to see such things, the slight depressions in the loamy earthy and bent-back ferns would have clearly pointed out the path that the errant young man was taking. Not to mention the places where he had clearly used his sword to hack through the thicker swathes of vegetation.

N'aethan inhaled deeply, relishing the myriad scents of green growing things, so abundant after the grim desolation of World's End. The wind shifted slightly. He frowned, paused and turned.

"I know you are there," N'aethan shouted. "Come out! Show yourself!"

After a moment, the bushes to his rear rustled slightly and Mitsu the Seanchan assassin stepped out on soundless feet. She held the heavy, curved blade that had belonged to High Lord Turak (and a double millennia before him, to the Gaidin Anselan) loosely in both hands, ready to draw and strike at a moment's notice. She was scowling. Not an unusual occurrence.

N'aethan regarded the diminutive woman disapprovingly, but with a trace of respect. She really was very good at sneaking around, as good as the Shaido, but of course, that had made no difference.

"Why do you follow me?" N'aethan demanded.

Mitsu ignored the question. "How did you know I was there, Chami?" she demanded, in turn.

"Stop calling me that!"

"It is what you are. How did-"

"I could _smell_ you. You smell of anchovies!"

"I do not!"

"Do too!"

"You are a _liar_ , Chami!"

"You are an _idiot_ , Anchovy!"

They glared at each other awhile, then N'aethan shrugged his broad shoulders. "Come with me then, though uninvited," he allowed, "but keep up, you will, or leave you to be eaten by the kangaroos, will I!"

Mitsu fell into step with him, eyeing him suspiciously. "What is that?" she hissed, "what you said; a kanga..?"

"Kangaroo. A beast that lives on the plains north of Larcheen. They hop. And eat people who ask too many questions!" N'aethan did not trouble to mention that kangaroos actually ate grass. Let her worry! It served her right for calling him-

"Chami."

"What, Anchovy?"

"Where are we?"

"The Great Southern Continent. Where I was born in the Light, it is."

"You were born in shadows, Chami, like all your foul kind. But the _Atha'an Miere_ Gaidin, he called it-?"

"The Land of the Madmen, yes, I know. It is troubling." N'aethan's brow furrowed. He knew a brave man when he met one and the Warder Jabal Lionfish was obviously not the type to let his fears control him... and yet, his trepidation at their destination was clearly heartfelt. What had happened here? Something bad. They could not retreat via the Portal Stone, the Crone and her Shadowfilth horde would be waiting for them. If they were to survive here, he would need to find some answers. But he had his orders; first he was to seek Ellythia Sedai's missing brother, Thaeus of House Desiama.

The seeking ended abruptly at a wide, fast-flowing stream. Lord Whitecloak's tracks vanished into it, and did not emerge on the other side.

"An old trick, Chami," Mitsu scoffed.

"But a good one, Anchovy," N'aethan pointed out.

After some bickering, they chose to follow the stream east.

They chose wrong.

* * *

Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, sat cross-legged on the desolate shore, her dark, unblinking gaze fixed on the waves that lapped fitfully at the sand. The ocean seemed to stretch out forever, and some way beyond it lay the Westlands. Her home. She doubted that she would ever see it again.

"Watcher's Oath! What have we got ourselves into this time?" muttered Shrina. Ellyth glanced at her friend, sat beside her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she had been crying over her grandfather again.

Ellyth draped a commiserating arm about her shoulders. "We will find a way home, yes?" Sounding more confident than she felt, she added; "surely ships dock here from time to time?"

"No, actually they don't."

They both glanced up. Renn was trudging through the sand towards them, shaking her head, unruly locks of pale hair sweeping across her placid brown eyes. She had been consulting with Jabal, who stood at the edge of the waves, speaking quietly with Aebel and Blaek. All three Warders had their blades drawn. There was no sign of the Aiel... and none either of the Seanchan girl, for that matter. Ellyth frowned. Good riddance!

Shrina regarded Renn as she plumped down beside them in the sand. "What, even the _Atha'an Miere?_ They sail everywhere. Don't they come here?"

Renn continued to shake her head. "Especially not them. Travelling here is forbidden."

Ellyth thought about Jabal's words. 'The Land of the Madmen.' It sounded ominous. More than ominous.

Renn eyed them both soberly. "Apparently, the Breaking never ended here. Perhaps there were too few female Aes Sedai to properly restore order? But all I know is, there are powerful, insane male channelers on the loose, bringing death and destruction to all whom they encounter."

There was silence as they considered this. Shrina broke that silence. She usually did. "Where in the Waves are the bloody Red Ajah when you actually flaming _need_ them?!"

Despite their predicament, Ellyth could not help but smile. Renn chuckled softly. The Warders glanced over at them curiously, frowning. This was hardly a moment for levity!

Ellyth composed herself. "What of the other inhabitants?"

"The less said of them the better," Renn replied. "Savages, who attack strangers on sight."

Ellyth shivered.

 _Thaeus... and Naythan…please come back safely._

* * *

Thaeus of House Desiama, once but no longer a Lord Lieutenant of the Children of Light, squelched through the deep forest, his blade bared and ready. His boots had leaked while he waded west through the shallow stream but the discomfort was worth it if it foiled any pursuit. His doom was his own to follow, and no-one else's. He suspected that his sister would send her unusual Warder, Naythan Shieldman, in pursuit of him… perhaps the Aiel also… well, that would not deter him. He would find a place where he could be alone, where he could do no harm to others. Where he could die in peace.

The smell of roasting meat came on the breeze and Thaeus' stomach growled involuntarily. It had been a long time since he had eaten anything. Cautiously, he pushed his way through the ferns. A clearing lay up ahead, and it was not empty.

Thaeus noticed two things simultaneously. The dozen-or-so people squatting around the fire wore filthy rags and furs, their faces marked with disfiguring scars. And the meat cooking over the fire, arranged on a long spit, was a dismembered human leg. Thaeus felt his gorge rise. One of the savages looked up and noticed him; he shouted something unintelligible to the others. As one, they rose, brandishing crude wooden clubs and flint-tipped spears.

"I have no quarrel with you, good cannibals," Thaeus found himself saying, but they either did not understand or did not care, but charged forward, howling bestial war cries. Flight was not an option – they were too close – so Thaeus slipped into the void and darted forward to meet them, blade raised.

Their weapons were poor and they were untrained but they still outnumbered him thirteen-to-one. Thaeus didn't care. The Courtier Taps the Fan split the skull of the leader, a bearded savage with filed teeth. The Leopard's Caress gutted a snarling woman who lacked a nose. Cataract in the Mountains, and two more savages were down, clutching at their ruined throats. Then, a club smashed into his shoulder and Thaeus dropped his sword. He tried to retrieve it but his attacker, a tall, lean man with a heavily scarred face, raised his weapon to finish him off. As the implement swept down to crack his skull, Thaeus narrowed his eyes – and his opponent burst into flames, screaming. The remaining savages fell back.

" _Souvraniene!_ " one shrieked, and they turned and fled into the forest.

Nursing his wounded shoulder, Thaeus surveyed the scene. The noseless woman was still alive, clutching her spilled intestines and gazing up at him with raw terror from where she lay on the gore soaked ground.

"Who are you foul people?" Thaeus demanded, picking up his sword and wiping it clean awkwardly, as his right arm didn't seem to work properly.

" _Souvraniene,_ " she moaned, followed by a string of words in what sounded like a debased version of the Old Tongue. Then, she died, seemingly as much from fear as her wound.

"I'm no Madman," Thaeus muttered, "not yet, at least." He paused. "Then again, I _am_ talking to myself…"

Thaeus left the grisly clearing, heading south towards the line of smoking mountains in the far distance. But before he did, he kicked dirt over the fire and interred the severed leg in a shallow pit that he scraped out with his sword. He hoped the unknown victim of these savages would approve.

* * *

The Wet Sands Shaido squatted in the low dunes above the beach, leaning on their spears, their backs resolutely turned towards the vast and disconcerting expanse of salty water that stretched out to the horizon. The sight of it was troubling to them. This was not all that was troubling. As leader, Cohradin tried to put an optimistic cast on things.

"How many _algai'd'siswai_ can claim that they have travelled through a magickal rock at the behest of Aes Sedai, journeyed to a distant land where no Aiel has ever set foot?" he enthused. "Why, I expect that even the Wetlander explorer Jain Farstrider never came to here!"

The others regarded him stonily.

"We are not as you, Cohradin," Chassin pointed out, "we have not your lust for adventure."

"Indeed," agreed Gerom, " _we_ did not voyage to Forbidden Shara as boys."

"Bah!" bahed Cohradin, before turning to Manda. "What say you, Maiden of the Pretty Ringlets?!"

Manda ceased fiddling with her oddly curled hair long enough to direct a baleful stare at Cohradin. "I say that you are a _pig,_ " she muttered.

Cohradin made a piggish grunting sound, then glanced at Chassin and Gerom, inviting his Knife-Brothers to share the joke. They were in no mood for jests, however.

Gerom's voice rumbled; "the Sea Folk Warder says we are in a horrible place, where Madmen and savages abound."

"And I thought _we_ were the savages," Cohradin quipped. "The foolish Gleeman, Roth Blucha, often used this word to describe we, the Aiel... at least until I told him not to."

"There is the Gleeman now," commented Chassin, pointing.

The Shaido turned their heads. Clad in the ragged remains of gaudy finery, Roth Blucha was indeed walking toward them through the dunes. He had not seen them yet; their _cadin'sor_ blended in with the sandy surroundings. He looked skinnier than when he had guested at Wet Sands Hold, his hair was longer and he sported an unkempt, narrow beard. In one hand he held his precious harp, in the other, a wine bottle. His colourful Gleeman's cloak fluttered about him in the fitful breeze.

"It is indeed the Gleeman," affirmed Cohradin, "I wonder what he is doing here?"

"Let us ask him," suggested Gerom.

The Shaido rose. Roth Blucha saw them and stared, coming to a halt.

"I see you, Roth Blucha," Cohradin called out, "what do you here, Gleeman?"

Roth ignored the question but stumbled forward, waving his arms. "Not so loud! The savages might hear you…" he considered. "The _other_ savages, I mean… the locals… the natives… they're _awful!_ They kill everything that moves and they eat each other! Why, they're even worse than you lot!"

"How came you here?" Cohradin repeated, with slow persistence, well aware that the Gleeman could be somewhat verbose.

"By ship, of course – how else? It is a long story. I didn't _want_ to come... it was an accident! I was being chased by a homicidal dwarf! Actually, I think I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind. By the by, that glass eye looks horrid, Cohradin, why don't you wear a patch instead?"

"Hello again, Gleeman," said Manda, with a sultry smile.

Roth smiled back at her winningly. "Magda! What happened to your hair?"

Manda scowled ferociously and Roth's smile slipped from his narrow face. "It is _Manda,_ you fool! How many times?!"

"Silence, Maiden," Cohradin snapped, before turning back to the Gleeman. "By ship, say you? Where is this craft? We left ours in the forest."

Roth blinked, mouthed the word 'forest?' and then shrugged. "The ship was wrecked in a storm, only a few of us made it ashore. Our camp is a mile down the beach." He held up the wine bottle, which was tightly corked and empty, but for a scrap of rolled-up parchment, covered in familiar florid scrawl. "I came to launch my latest message out to sea, in hopes of rescue."

"That is foolish, Gleeman!" Cohradin scoffed.

Roth spoke with offended dignity. "It is just my way of contributing," he explained. Then, he shaded his sea-green eyes and peered down at the people on the beach below. "I say, is that Shrina? It is! And her matching Warders… her two Aes Sedai friends… the secret Sea Folk husband too…" He shook his head and laughed softly. "Typical! You come halfway around the bloody world and the first people you meet... why, you _know_ 'em!"

* * *

" _I do not think he went this way_ …" N'aethan muttered.

"What was that, Chami? I did not understand you." Mitsu was eyeing him suspiciously, as she usually did.

With a start, N'aethan realised that he had been speaking the High, the Old Tongue as they called it now. This was not all that he realised. A nagging sensation that had been with him ever since his arrival in this strange land. " _Be'lal is dead,_ " he stated wonderingly, " _the Weaver of Nets is no more… and Ishamael, he too is gone._ " But he would be back, the Lord of the Grave would see to that. And finally, there was Asmodean, the Dark Composer… he wasn't dead unfortunately, but it felt almost as though he had been severed from the Shadow somehow. " _But that is impossible, is it not?_ " A little like the realisation when he had been awakened from his long sleep in the Stasis Box, N'aethan realised that quite a deal of time must have passed since he entered the arcane corona of the Portal Stone, found himself in _tel'aran'rhiod_ where he spoke with the dead and emerged once more into the World of the Wheel… months, years even. There was more information waiting to trickle into his subconscious… more dead Forsaken, he could only hope.

"Why do you mutter to yourself and look grim, Chami?" Mitsu demanded.

N'aethan ignored her, his eyes scanning the opposite side of the stream from which no footprints emerged. The stream itself had devolved into a small waterfall, replete with slippery rocks… clearly, the young Lord Whitecloak had not descended there. They had chosen the wrong path. Or had they?

N'aethan raised his gaze from the splashing water to a long, low hill that rose from the distant forest. A hill that was not a hill. And he recollected the glimmer message from Father, back in the Cenotaph, the ancient words he had spoken to the Finder of the Key, Ellythia Desiama… and the intricate coded orders he had simultaneously tapped out against his leg. A message meant for N'aethan.

' _Go to the Dragon College, my Son. There, will you find answers.'_

Cryptic as ever, it was typical of Father… and yet, even after he was long dead, N'aethan found it imperative to obey the ancient Aes Sedai who had created him. And there it lay in the distance, the _Collam Aman._ Not even the Breaking of the World could destroy _that._ He would go there and he would find his answers… and _then_ he would go west and locate Ellythia Sedai's missing brother. Father's orders superseded hers, it would seem. And he would prefer to do this _alone._

N'aethan turned to Mitsu. "Anchovy, go back to the beach. Tell the others to wait there, they should not venture inland. There are doubtless many dangers."

Mitsu scowled. "I am not your messenger, Chami! I will do as I see fit."

N'aethan narrowed his eyes. "Tell me, have you ever been spanked?"

"As a girl, yes, I was unruly. Why do you ask?"

"Do as I say, or receive the worst spanking of your life!"

Mitsu stared at N'aethan for a long moment, then did something unexpected. She laughed. It was not much of a laugh, admittedly, a curt bark of mirth, but it was still the most human thing he had seen her do, thus far. "You are a fool, Chami, to threaten a Bloodknife. Perhaps I will take you back to Seanchan and present you at Court, that you might entertain the Blood and the Empress, may she live forever, with your antics." She shrugged. "But I will do as you say, this once."

N'aethan nodded. "Good!"

"Where will you go in the meantime, Chami? In case anyone asks…"

"Where else?" N'aethan pointed at the hill that was not a hill. " _Home_."

* * *

Kor Paendrag Athan closed one dark eye and peered with the other through his most prized possession, but for the knife. An ancient telescope, the brass barrels worn smooth as glass by generations of hands, a relic of the great ships that had brought his people here. He crouched in the thick undergrowth atop the hill that overlooked the dunes and the beach, his hunters and scouts hidden to either side, awaiting his orders.

What Kor saw disturbed him. Aes Sedai! Three of them! The legends mentioned the gold rings that they wore, the colour-fringed shawls, though they seemed to lack the ageless faces that were also spoken of. And who but the accursed witches could transport a ship to the middle of a forest? The three men with them wore strange cloaks that shifted their colours, also spoken of in the stories. Warders, then. Gaidin. They looked as though they knew how to use their swords. Kor eyed the valuable weapons with envy. Only the High Princesses' Hawk Guard carried these prized, rare blades. He shifted his gaze from the beach to the dunes. The gaudy fellow in the many hued cloak confused him. He held a harp; a bard, perhaps? And as for the others, with whom he spoke…

His second, Chel, crawled silently up beside him. Wordlessly, Kor passed him the telescope. Chel examined the tall strangers for a long moment, then turned to Kor. ' _Aiel?_ ' he mouthed silently, his scarred, painted face holding bemusement, wonder even. Kor nodded curtly. The spears, the long tails of hair, their height… they could be nothing else. All knew the tale of the High King's sole defeat at the hands of these savages. What were they doing here?

Kor's eyes narrowed with resolve. The Aiel were too dangerous to let live, they must be killed, but the others should be taken alive if possible, brought back to the Island to answer questions. The war-canoes were hidden not far to the west, he had already sent a runner to fetch them. It would not be easy, but by the Hawkwing's soul, it could be done.

* * *

Roth Blucha, Journeyman Gleeman, could not help but notice that Cohradin was shading his eyes and peering up at the hills above them; he followed his gaze and thought he detected a brief flash of light up there. Though he could not be sure, his eyes had always been rather weak. He had a poor constitution also, and rations had been a bit short of late. The mile walk from the camp had worn him out, but Ysmet was angry with him again about something or other, so he had thought it best to absent himself for a while. And had encountered the same three peculiar Aielmen who had rescued him from the Blight! Not to mention the equally peculiar Aielwoman, who had provided such warm companionship at their horrendous Hold… and down on the beach, Shrina and the others! It certainly was a small world. But despite his ardent attachment to his first love, Roth was in no hurry to be reunited with Shrina. She would doubtless be angry with him for lying to her about Lord Wakime, as well as the rude song. Really, what was it about him that females found so objectionable? He was a reasonable man, was he not?

Cohradin was still scanning the hills.

"What are you looking at, Cohradin?" Roth enquired. With a start, he realised that the big Aielman had his good eye shut and was staring with the red one… Aiel were all mad! Every last one of them!

"There are people up there, Gleeman. They are looking at us."

"How in the Waves can you see them with that glass eye?"

"It is not fashioned of glass, but of something else. A relic of the Age of Legends, it enables me to see far, far indeed." Cohradin adopted a musing tone. "Hmm. Their faces are painted and they carry weapons."

" _Painted?_ " Roth gulped. "Uh-oh! Hawx!"

The Shaido looked at him. "What is 'Hawx' Roth Blucha?" Gerom enquired.

"Bad news! Our guide told us about them. They live on an island to the east, apparently. They come ashore to battle the natives…"

"Who is this guide?" Chassin asked, curiously.

"Oh, he's a local who was driven north in his boat by a storm… some oilfishers from Mayene found him, he was half-dead and had been drinking seawater. He's a useful chap, knows all sorts of things about the Land of the you-know-what's…" Roth considered. "Mind you, he _is_ completely crazy; why, he actually _wanted_ to come back here!"

"They are approaching," Cohradin commented, sounding bored.

Roth pawed at his arm with the hand that was not holding the harp, the message in a bottle lying discarded at his feet. "Then we'd best get out of here!"

The Shaido looked at him again.

"Why?" asked Manda.

"Why? Why do you _think?_ Because they're _dangerous!_ "

Cohradin chuckled softly. "Oh, but so are we! Do you think we fear to dance with these… these…"

"Hawx," supplied Gerom.

"Yes, _them_. Let the fools come." Cohradin raised his voice; "Shaido of Wet Sands – it is time to wash the spears!" As one, they wrapped their black veils about their faces.

Roth groaned.

* * *

"Danger, Shrina!" the Twins shouted at the same time, while Jabal added; "get behind me, wife!" Ellyth whirled around, scrambling to her feet. There were nine men and women advancing on them across the sand, formed into a loose line. Shrina rose, while Renn struggled to see over the shoulder of her protective husband, who had placed himself between her and the enemy.

"Who are they?" Ellyth gasped.

Shrina drew her sword. "I don't know, but they don't exactly look friendly," she muttered.

They certainly did not. They wore jerkins and kilts of buckskin, their feet bare, their hair twined in long braids, and they carried spears and short blades, as well as odd-looking wooden tubes. In addition, their faces were painted in stylised, feathery designs, giving them the aspect of predatory birds. The tallest, clearly their leader, took a step ahead of the others when they were twenty paces away, and called out to them.

Ellyth caught the words 'Aes Sedai' but since the man was speaking the Old Tongue, discerned little else. She glanced at Renn. "What did he say?"

Renn frowned. "It's a very debased dialect and a damned strange accent, but I think he wants us to go with them… if we do not resist, we will not be harmed?"

The tall, severe-looking man nodded. "I speak the Vulgar also, witches," he declared, in a strange, sibilant accent, "though I am of the Blood. You will come with us, your guardians also. Tell them to drop their swords."

Aebel and Blaek growled angrily and Jabal took a step forward. "You want our swords? Come and take them, if you dare," he shouted.

The leader eyed him and something like surprise flickered over his stony, painted face. " _Atha'an Miere_ ," he muttered, "this is passing strange…" He raised his voice to an authoritative bellow; "take them!" As one, several of the enemy raised the bamboo tubes to their lips, blowing hard, shooting forth small, feathered darts.

Jabal flicked one from the air with his blade, deflecting it, but another dart struck him in the arm. He staggered, his legs buckling, but with the last of his strength, threw his sword in a deadly spinning arc, directly at the leader – who casually slipped aside, letting the whirling blade go past. It struck the man behind in the chest and he fell back, blood spurting from the wound. Jabal collapsed face-down in the sand and lay still. Renn cried out.

Aebel and Blaek charged the enemy, but only got a few paces before more of the feathered darts struck them and they too fell. Shrina snarled furiously and thunder rumbled ominously above. The attackers turned their attention to the three young Aes Sedai – more darts flew towards them, but Renn raised a hand and the feathered missiles came to an abrupt halt halfway to their targets, before falling to the sand. The tips of the darts were covered with a dark, oily substance.

Renn smiled calmly, though her eyes were on Jabal, lying comatose before her. "If you've hurt my husband, I will-" she began to say and then her eyes widened and she fell forward, a dart protruding from the back of her neck. Ellyth turned; three large, long wooden boats were landing in the surf, more of the predatory attackers disembarking, the bamboo tubes raised to their lips. Two more advanced on Shrina from the front, holding a net between them; she scowled and a jagged fork of lightening spat from the sky, striking them down. Then Shrina gasped and fell back, another dart sticking in her chest.

Ellyth frowned and prepared to summon her fires – but there was a sharp pinprick in her arm, a strong sensation of drowsiness, and then she knew no more.

* * *

"I see you, bird-faced ones!" called Cohradin cheerfully, as the line of ten oddly-garbed men and women advanced on the Shaido, brandishing spears, knives and clubs. "I am red-eyed Cohradin of the Sovin Nai. Which of you is leader?"

The biggest enemy, a much-scarred villain with a long lance, spoke up; "I am Chel," he stated, "I lead."

Cohradin found his accent rather strange. He grinned. "Then I shall slay you first," he promised the fellow. The enemy broke into a run, raising their weapons and howling savagely. "Wake them!" Cohradin shouted. The Shaido needed no encouragement to do so. Their opponents were good at the dance, better than the renegade pirates had been – but they had never faced Aiel before. They learned this to their cost.

Cohradin avoided a savage thrust of Chel's lance with alacrity – the fellow was almost as fast as a Myrddraal – then kicked him in the face and plunged his spear into his enemy's chest. Two more came at him from either side – he chopped one in the neck with his knife-hand, a fatal blow, and cut the other's throat with the Sea Folk blade that he had acquired in the Nightwatcher's odd Hold.

"There," Cohradin told the weapon with satisfaction, "now you have been blooded."

"Only a foolish _Sovin Nai_ talks to his dagger," Manda sneered, as she wiped the blood from her spear-point, "do you expect it to talk _back?_ "

Cohradin ignored her and looked around. The four Shaido were still standing. Their enemy were not, but lay littered about their feet in various attitudes of death. Cohradin sighed, and lowered his black veil, as did the others.

Gerom came over, his large hands bloody. "The one called 'Chel' yet lives," he commented, looking down at the leader.

Chassin joined them, wiping his daggers clean. "Not for long," he pointed-out. It was true, blood bubbled from the wound in the big man's chest, which rose and fell raggedly. His gaze was fixed on Cohradin. His lips formed a few soft words in the Old Tongue. Then, he died.

Cohradin felt the strange malaise that sometimes affected him after the Dance of the Spears, and shrugged it off. One day, he knew that it would be _him_ lying there, looking up with fading sight at the one who had killed him. Sulin, most probably. He would not begrudge it. And besides, _that_ day was not _this_ day!

"What did he say?" Cohradin asked Gerom.

Gerom shrugged his massive shoulders. "He was hard to understand. But I think he said; 'I see now why the Hawkwing failed.' Then, he waked from the dream."

"The Hawkwing? What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Cohradin demanded.

"Never mind!" Manda snapped, "there are more of them attacking the Aes Sedai and their Gaidin – see?" They saw.

The Shaido ran down to the beach with their usual ground-eating pace, but by the time they arrived it was all over. The painted enemy were loading the limp forms of Ellythia Desiama and her companions into their strange boats. The Shaido advanced on them. Three of the attackers lay dead on the sand, leaving about thirteen to deal with.

"It is a good day to die!" Cohradin called out, "tell me, strangers, after we have waked you, would you prefer to be buried or burned? What are your funerary customs?"

A tall, severe-looking man turned away from one of the boats. He held a long steel blade with a golden pommel in one hand, and Cohradin noted that he had the Sea Folk Warder's blade tucked through his belt.

"You killed Chel and the others." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

Cohradin was unsure if it was a question or a statement. "They danced well enough for… for Madlanders," he allowed, generously.

One of the women snarled angrily, raised her javelin and hurled it at Cohradin. He caught the weapon neatly, spun it, then broke it across his knee, dropping the shards to the sand. Another of the enemy raised a long wooden tube to his lips and blew – a feathered dart shot towards Chassin, who caught it casually on his buckler, examined it briefly, then grinned his rare, disturbing grin, the twin scars on his cheeks twisting.

"We can play this game all day," Cohradin pointed-out, feeling bored, "come and face us – there are worse ways to die!" The Shaido pulled up their black veils again and began to drum their spears on their bucklers. They started forward.

"No," said the leader, "I do not think so." He grabbed Ellythia Desiama by the hair, pulling her head up out of the boat, and held his long knife to her throat. "Come no closer or this one dies – they _all_ die!"

Cohradin ceased his advance, as did the other Shaido. "How do we know she is not already dead?" he demanded.

"You don't, savage! But do you wish to take the risk?"

Cohradin frowned. He could see Ellythia Sedai's chest rising and falling slowly, that she and the others were still alive. "It is dishonourable, to kill someone in their sleep," he grumbled.

The leader smiled coldly. "What know you of honour?" he hissed, then shouted something in the Old Tongue. The enemy hastily fell back to the boats, pushing them into the surf, embarking and seizing wooden paddles. The leader was the last to go, standing at the stern, watching the Aiel warily.

"I will see you again, friend," Cohradin promised him. "We shall have words, you and I."

The leader did not answer, but his eyes were cold and held murder.

Cohradin watched as the boats put out to sea and turned, heading east, their occupants paddling hard. Then, he blinked, looked at the others. "Where is the Gleeman?" he wondered.

"He was standing behind me when the strangers attacked," reported Manda. She considered a moment. "I expect that he ran away." The Shaido nodded.

"No I didn't! I'm right here!" complained Roth Blucha, sounding hurt. There was no sign of him, however.

"Where are you, Gleeman? Reveal yourself!" Cohradin barked, in no mood for Roth Blucha's foolishness.

"Oh… sorry. I forgot." There was the sound of a high-pitched note being blown on some kind of pipe, the air nearby shimmered and Roth Blucha appeared out of nowhere. He held his precious harp in one hand, a small round pipe in the other. The wine bottle was tucked through his belt. Manda gasped at his sudden appearance, but the Knife Hands took it in their stride. They were familiar with the Gleeman's strange pipe- _ter'angreal_ , that conferred invisibility on the user.

"You hid yourself whilst we Danced the Spears," Cohradin accused scornfully, "you are a _coward_ Roth Blucha!"

"Am not!" Roth held up his golden harp. "Do you think I'm going to go charging into battle while I'm holding _this?_ Think again, Aielman!"

"You are just making excuses," Cohradin exclaimed.

Roth Blucha adopted a patient tone. "This harp is thousands of years old; they say it belonged to Mangore Kiramin himself!" The Shaido just looked at him. "You don't know who that is, do you?" the Gleeman added, witheringly.

"I do," protested Gerom, mildly. "I have read his translated prophecies. A fine writer."

"Well, yes, but my point is, the harp is worth more than your entire Hold and everything in it! Do you seriously think I'm going to risk it in a _fight?_ "

"Gah!" shouted Cohradin, exasperated, "why does talking to you always make me feel as though I am going _mad,_ Gleeman? You are a big fool! You were a fool when we found you dying in the Blight, you were a fool when you guested at Wet Sands and you are yet a fool now! _Fool!_ "

Roth Blucha ventured an air of offended dignity, then shrugged. "I suppose you'd all better come back to the camp," he suggested, "we need to plan some sort of a rescue and Ysmet is better at planning things than me… well, just about everyone is, to be honest."

"Who is Ysmet?" asked Manda, suspiciously.

"Well, she's the Captain of our ship, the Queen Mab… not that there _is_ a ship anymore… and she's also sort of… well… my wife…"

Cohradin grinned and slapped Roth Blucha on the back, making him stagger. "So, the carefree Gleeman has finally picked up a wreath, eh?"

"Wetlanders do not make bridal wreaths," Gerom pointed-out.

"I know this, my brother! It was a figure of speech."

Roth Blucha was giving them all a funny look, when it was usually the other way around. "There's an Aielman back at the camp, he signed on as crew in Illian… he's a bit strange, quite frankly."

"Strange? How so?" enquired Chassin.

"It's difficult to explain… you'll have to see for yourself."

"So, we are not the first Aiel to visit this strange land," posited Cohradin, frowning. "It is certainly unusual for one of our people to wish to become a sailorman."

"Uh… yes."

"What Clan is he from, Gleeman? Is he of the mighty Shaido, or another, lesser Clan?"

"Um… I think he's a… a Mangonel?"

"That is not an Aiel Clan, Roth Blucha," Gerom corrected him, "that is a type of Wetlands catapult. It is used for siege warfare."

"It is? Oh… I knew I'd heard the name somewhere…"

"The idiotic Gleeman has a problem with _names,_ " observed Manda, sneering.

"Well, I don't know! You Aiel have too many Clans, and they all have silly names! Except for the Shaido, of course," Roth added hastily, seeing Cohradin's eyes narrow.

"Perhaps the Gleeman means the Tomanelle?" Chassin suggested, "this sounds similar..."

"Yes, that's the one! Well anyway, the Aielman... he's rather odd. Don't say I didn't warn you."

They set off down the beach, Roth tucking his odd pipe away in a pocket of his patched cloak. He paused. The Shaido stopped walking, looked at him.

"Almost forgot," Roth Blucha exclaimed, tugging the message-bearing wine bottle out of his belt. He took a deep breath, then hurled it into the waves.

"A puny throw," Cohradin commented disparagingly. It was true, the bottle had barely made it out beyond the surf. It bobbed in the seawater.

"It'll do," Roth Blucha muttered. "It'll do."

* * *

The line of smoking mountains seemed a little closer, Thaeus had been walking for hours and dusk was falling, but clearly he would not reach his goal that day. He held the ancient blade of his House at the ready, in case he encountered any more savages, though he supposed he could always burn them, as his sister had first immolated a Grey Man assassin beneath the Dome of Truth. That seemed like a very long time ago. His boots had dried out but his stockings still felt rather damp. Finally, exhausted, Thaeus sank down on a log in a clearing and removed both. He inspected his bare feet glumly. It felt as though he had blisters. His wounded shoulder pained him and his head ached, probably as a result of channeling the One Power…

"Hello, handsome. Sore feet?"

Thaeus looked up, startled. The voice was clear, high-pitched and emerged from a strange looking girl who had stepped out from behind a tree, moving with unnerving silence as she approached him. Thaeus' grip on his sword hilt tightened and he rose, examining his interlocutor. She was tall and graceful, shaped like a dancer. A long mane of russet hair swept back from her brow, she had an upturned nose and full lips. She wore a ragged maroon dress with a tooled leather girdle about her slim waist, an ancient-looking bronze knife tucked through it. Her feet were bare, the nails on her toes rather long, her fingers also, coming to points. Her ears also came to points, lying flat against her skull. Her eyes were very pale, almost colourless.

Thaeus said the first thing that came into his head. "You look a bit like a fox!"

The girl threw back her head and laughed, an odd, yipping sound. Her teeth were very white, and rather sharp. "Do I? Do I really? Well, you may have something there…" She ceased her approach and stood a few paces away, regarding him with what seemed like satisfaction.

Thaeus returned the gaze with fascination. He had never seen anyone quite like her. Or had he?

"My name's Feir. What's yours?"

"Lord Thaeus of House Desiama."

"Ooh, impressive! I've never met a Lord before…" The girl – Feir – adopted a quizzical mien. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"What makes you say that?" Thaeus hedged, reluctant to give anything away.

"Because you haven't got ugly scars all over your pretty face and you're not wearing filthy rags!"

Thaeus laughed, but his overriding sense was one of wariness. He suspected that this strange girl was dangerous.

Feir's gaze moved to his sword. "That's a lovely blade. May I look at it?"

"Um…" Thaeus wondered how best to refuse without giving offence. He did not get that far. There was a blur of movement and he found himself lying on his back, winded. Feir stood over him, holding the blade in a two-handed grip. She performed an elegant Heron Wading in the Rushes. Clearly, she was no stranger to swordplay.

"One of the Warmen taught me the sword-forms," Feir explained. "Father didn't know about it, he would have disapproved…"

Thaeus leaned up on his elbows, watching her carefully. He had never seen anyone move so fast. The closest had been when he sparred with Naythan Shieldman…

"This is a fine blade," Feir commented, eyeing it admiringly, "an Officer's weapon if I'm not mistaken, from the War." She executed a Lizard in the Thornbush expertly. "Middle Brother had one like this," she added, wistfully.

Thaeus was not sure, but got the impression that Feir was enjoying talking to him, that it was something she did not get to do very often.

"Power-wrought, of course, or I shouldn't be able to touch it…" Feir glanced at him curiously. "What are you doing down there?"

"You pushed me," Thaeus pointed-out, though not particularly accusingly.

"Oh yes, I did, didn't I? Sorry about that, don't know my own strength…" A long nailed hand was presented to him and Thaeus took it cautiously, was pulled unceremoniously to his feet. Feir returned the sword and Thaeus sheathed it at his back with a single, smooth motion. There was no use brandishing it at the girl, he did not think it would do him any good.

"You're not entirely human, are you?" Thaeus suggested carefully.

"Not entirely, no. But we can't all be perfect." Feir turned her head. "Gholam! You can come out now!"

A slight woman with short, dark hair emerged from the trees. She wore drab trews and a shirt, both a little too large for her, feet equally bare. She had a pale, expressionless face and blank, black, soul-less eyes. She came over to stand beside Feir, staring at Thaeus hungrily.

"Well?" enquired Feir, "what do you think of him, Gholam?"

The woman replied in a soft voice; "I think that I would like to drink all of his blood, Mistress."

"Tsk! Manners!" Feir turned to Thaeus apologetically. "Sorry about the Gholam," she confided, "it is a nasty, rude, uncouth creature."

Thaeus felt like taking a cautious step back, but the log was in the way. He felt like _running!_ Running away from this odd pair, who were both clearly not quite sane.

As though sensing his thoughts, Feir enquired; "by the way, have you begun to go mad yet?" She squinted her strange, pale eyes, pupils narrowing slightly. "You've not been channeling very long, have you milord?"

" _Souvraniene,_ " muttered the Gholam.

"How… how did you know?" Thaeus wondered.

"I can sense it." Feir shrugged. "See it, too. It's part of what I was made to do." She licked her lips with a small pink tongue. "Well, it's been lovely talking to you, Thaeus…" The Gholam made an irritable sound, they both moved a pace closer to him, "…but a girl must eat…"

Unbidden, the void claimed Thaeus and he felt _saidin_ flowing into him, sweetness and filth combined. He felt the fires forming – and then, everything seemed to shatter.

"Now, now, none of that!" said Feir impatiently. She seemed to inhale, her pupils dilating, and Thaeus suddenly felt empty. Drained. The _saidin_ was gone, and so was the void. He sat back down on the log, head spinning.

Feir sighed with pleasure. "That was awfully nice… it's been a while…" her eyes narrowed, "but I want _more!_ "

"Stop talking to the food and get on with it!" the Gholam grumbled.

"Shut-up, Gholam. Insolent creature!"

Thaeus looked up at Feir. "You remind me of someone," he muttered. Perhaps it was the madness, but he felt no fear at his predicament. He felt nothing. And knew that he had only moments to save his life.

"I remind you of someone? I rather doubt that. I'm somewhat unique." Feir loomed over him, fingering the bronze blade in her belt. "Who?"

"My sister's Warder, Naythan Shieldman."

"Never heard of him."

"He comes from the Age of Legends, as do you two, I think." Thaeus considered. "The Aiel call him _Vron'cor._ Nightwatcher."

Feir's eyes widened, with what could only be excitement. "Describe him."

"Of middling height, a muscular frame. White hair, strange cobalt eyes, sharp teeth, never removes his gloves… oh, and his ears are pointed, as are yours. There the resemblance begins and ends."

Feir had a thin gold chain about her neck from which dangled a silver locket. She opened it, crouched lithely before Thaeus, and showed him the picture inside. An old man sitting in a chair, a tall, white haired fellow who resembled a Myrddraal standing to one side, and to the other…

"Yes, that is him, on the left."

Feir laughed her strange laugh and clapped her hands together.

"Can we eat him now?" asked the Gholam.

"No! Go and catch a squirrel or something…"

Muttering angrily to itself, the Gholam disappeared into the forest.

"You know him then?" enquired Thaeus, distantly grateful for the reprieve.

"Oh, only by reputation. We've never met." Feir smiled, a sly smile. "But he _is_ my Brother."

* * *

It was getting dark by the time Mitsu returned to the beach, but a bright, full moon overhead gave her light enough to see by. To see the three strangely-attired corpses, the discarded weapons, the unmistakeable signs of a battle in the sand. The Aes Sedai, their Gaidin, the Aiel also… all were gone. What had happened here? Two of the dead looked scorched, she had seen corpses that looked like that before, back in Seanchan. The damane sometimes used lightning in battle so she supposed one of the marath'damane had done likewise. The third body had a deep wound in his chest, the eyes wide and staring. Mitsu began to turn away with disinterest, then turned back, thinking she had seen something. She kicked the dead man's arm and it flopped over. There, on the bicep, a stylised tattoo of a hawk. Mitsu rolled up her left sleeve, exposing an almost identical tattoo. She had got it when she joined the Fists of Heaven, a long time ago.

"Strange," Mitsu muttered.

* * *

It was dim and murky beneath the trees, moonlight occasionally flickering through the leaves, but of course, N'aethan could see perfectly well. If he walked all night, he thought he would reach the _Collam Aman_ by daybreak. He felt vaguely guilty to be making this unauthorised detour, but excited also – he was going home! But other things were occupying his mind at present.

" _Rahvin…_ " he muttered, in the High. He was convinced that he too was dead. One less evil reprobate to have to worry about... Perhaps it was the work of the Dragon Reborn, but the Forsaken were dropping like flies! This was a good thing… but Balthamel and worse, Aginor, evil old Grandfather… they were certainly back, courtesy of the Lord of the Grave. This was not so good. It was not fair! The dead should _stay_ dead. Typical of the vile Dark One to break the rules. What a cheat! And as for Asmodean… he was definitely dead too, probably killed by one of the other Forsaken. N'aethan had always taken a guilty pleasure in the man's music, though it could be rather morbid. Hardly surprising, really, given the provenance of the composer.

N'aethan hoped that he could pick up Lord Whitecloak's trail again, once Father's orders had been complied with. He was sure he could. He hoped equally that Ellythia Sedai would not be angry with him, for neglecting her brother's whereabouts. But if she was, well, he could think of several interesting and diverting ways to assuage her anger!

N'aethan smiled, recollecting their pleasant tryst. She was so beautiful, so tender, so… Abruptly, N'aethan slowed for a dozen paces and then finally stopped walking as an unfamiliar sensation swept through him, something that he had not felt in a long time. It took him a moment to correctly identify it.

" _I am in a stedding,_ " N'aethan remarked, wonderingly.

" _Yes, you are,_ " boomed a deep voice, speaking the Old Tongue. An Ogier stepped out of the trees ahead of him. N'aethan stared. Quite the _biggest_ Ogier he had ever seen… his eyebrows and beard were trimmed short and he wore a helmet and armour unmistakeably fashioned of sung-wood. He held an enormous axe in his massive hands, looked extremely formidable. " _Do you not know that it is death to come here, human?_ " the Ogier asked.

" _But I'm not-_ " N'aethan began to say, then sensed someone behind him. He whirled round, half drawing his sword, but it was too late – something heavy crashed into his skull and darkness claimed him.


	3. Chapter 2 : The Island

**Gleeman Bob writes:** _well, Chapter 2 seems to be half again as long as Chapter 1, despite my best efforts at brevity... Chapter 3 might be even longer, and will contain flashbacks too... as for the sex & violence, I am working on it! thank you to all those who have written nice reviews or taken the trouble to read the foolish Gleeman's inane scribblings... _

_those who read Chapter 1 will know that there are kangaroos in the Land of the Madmen. well, that is what N'aethan calls them in the Old Tongue, anyway, but only someone from the Age of Legends or thereabouts would do so. the modern term is 'walaru' which is a real word from the Aboriginal Dharug dialect, referring to something in between a wallaby and the aforementioned... kangaroo!_

 _I came up with the idea that the elite soldiers of the Hawx should wear hawk masks but then I thought; 'wait a minute - in Thieves World, weren't there these guys who also wore such masks? there were! tsag!' but they are going to wear them anyway, so there! and if Robert Asprin and Lynn Abbey and the rest of the contributers to the various Thieves World anthologies think I have plagiarism toh to them, they are quite welcome to beat me viciously with many sticks! besides, I always found Thieves World to be a bit sadistic and depressing, quite frankly, so I really don't care..._

 _(and I promise faithfully to not have my characters waving wands about and playing quidditch!)_

 _Walk in the Light!_

* * *

 _The hawks that fly west will fare the best;_

 _The hawks that fly east shall prosper the least._

Ancient Proverb attributed to Guaire Amalasan, the Second Dragon, circa FY 943

translated from the Old Tongue by the Scholar, Jeorad Manyard, Governor of Andor

(presumed to refer to the armies of Artur Hawkwing, sent overseas on missions of conquest)

 **Chapter Two * The Island**

When N'aethan came to, his head was aching fiercely and he was bound securely to a large tree. The bonds were only rawhide strips and he thought that he could probably break them, but since he was surrounded by a score of the largest, fiercest-looking Ogier he had ever seen, decided not to. Not that he was afeared to fight them, with or without his sword, but he didn't particularly want to hurt them; he had always liked Ogier. They never called him rude names and seemed to accept him for what he was. Whatever that was.

N'aethan examined the Ogier closely. Their hair was longer than was usual, falling down their broad backs, and they all had trimmed eyebrows and in the cases of the older ones, clipped beards. Their hairy ears lay flat against their skulls, which he knew was not a good sign. But it was the implacable gaze of those large eyes that told him they were not to be trifled with. Trifle… it had been a long time since he had tasted trifle… did they still make it? But he was getting side-tracked… confused… he was feeling woozy… perhaps he was concussed? They must have hit him quite hard to knock him out like that.

N'aethan returned his attention to the Ogier. The biggest one – he was enormous! – stood at the head of the group. It was the same who had addressed him earlier, when he first entered the _stedding_. The Ogier's gaze was lowered, he was holding N'aethan's sword, examining it closely. His massive axe was propped against his leg, which seemed the size of a tree-trunk. N'aethan noted the sung-wood helmet and armour that he wore – that they all wore. It was made up of overlapping plates of burnished teak, engraved with thorns and briars. He had seen Ogier wearing armour before of course, the _Alantin te Avende_ Guard who fought alongside the Warmen, but that had mostly been made of ceramics, or shattercloth. Those Ogier who did not carry axes and war-hammers brandished heavy clubs that also appeared to be fashioned of sung-wood… but the idea of their using their tree-singing skill to make weapons and armour was anathema, surely? These were definitely the strangest Ogier he had ever seen! Those he had fought alongside in the War and the wars that followed had been fierce, certainly; but in a controlled, restrained way. There was something wild and untamed about these Ogier, who held him captive. And he had the distinct impression that they did not like him very much…

The biggest Ogier spoke, without looking up from the sword. " _So you are awake. Good_." He used the High, the Old Tongue, with some fluency, his voice rumbling deeply, like the course of an underground river. " _Elder Hahal comes to question you – a great honour. He does not often leave the Stump_." The Ogier raised his gaze. His large eyes were the coldest of all. " _This blade you bore, it is power-wrought. How did you come by it?_ "

" _My Aes Sedai gave it to me._ " N'aethan answered in the same language.

There was a stir among the Ogier. The big one, presumably their leader, since he was doing all the talking, frowned darkly. " _There are no Aes Sedai – not any more. Only deranged women channelers who falsely claim that title._ "

N'aethan shrugged, as much as his bonds allowed. " _Maybe not here. But my Aes Sedai hails from the Wetlands – the Westlands, mean I, as I believe they name it._ "

A beardless Ogier youth, standing next to the leader, spoke up, sounding curious; " _where are these Westlands, human?_ "

" _North of here, across the ocean._ " N'aethan scowled, his pupils slitting. " _And like I was trying to say before, I'm_ not _human."_

The Ogier stirred again, muttering to each other in their incomprehensible speech. The leader raised his abbreviated eyebrows, his voice a deep basso growl; " _oh? If not a man, what are you then?_ "

" _A chumira._ "

" _What is that?_ " asked the youth.

" _A kind of Construct. A War-Construct. Made to fight the Shadow, like my Brothers._ " The Ogier just stared at him. They looked sceptical, if slightly less hostile. " _Like a Nym, only not,_ " N'aethan added.

The big leader snorted, an alarming sound. " _Such as you speak of have not existed for thousands of years, not since the Age of Legends._ "

N'aethan was beginning to feel exasperated. His head hurt and he was tied to a tree… and having his provenance doubted by weird-looking Ogier! He sighed. " _Check the ears!_ " he suggested, loudly.

The Ogier looked at each other. Then, the youth came forward. He was almost as big as the leader, had a heavy sung-wood club propped over one meaty shoulder.

N'aethan looked up at him, somewhat belligerently.

" _I am the one who hit you,_ " the Ogier youth declared. " _I hit you very hard, in fact – why are you not dead?_ "

" _I have a hard head,_ " N'aethan growled, liking the way their words rhymed.

" _Ah._ " The youth hesitated. " _Your teeth look rather sharp. Do not attempt to bite me, or I shall certainly hit you again._ "

N'aethan solemnly shook his head.

The youth extended a sausage-sized finger and brushed the hair back from the left side of N'aethan's head, revealing a pointed, tufted ear. The other Ogier crowded around to look. " _His ears are a little like ours,_ " one observed. " _He is an unusual creature,_ " added another.

N'aethan grinned. Perhaps he should show them his claws? How unusual would they find him then?

The atmosphere in the _stedding_ seemed to become almost convivial, for all that he was still tied to the tree. Even the big leader had ceased frowning. He turned his shaggy skull, gazing over the heads of the others. " _Elder Hahal comes,_ " he intoned.

The armoured Ogier warriors respectfully stood aside, making a lane down which an ancient Ogier Elder hobbled, leaning heavily on a gnarled sung-wood stick, intricately carved with vines. He did not wear armour, but a dark robe, further embroidered with more vines. His brows and beard were very long and the large eyes that peered at N'aethan as he approached held great wisdom… and sadness also. An Ogier maiden attended him, wearing a pale dress worked with blossoms. Her features were more delicate than those of the males, the hair on her ears silky. She smiled at the Ogier youth and he blushed furiously, his ears twitching.

N'aethan watched the Elder's slow approach warily. Something about the ancient Ogier told him to not be flippant.

The Ogier Elder stopped before him. " _What is your name, stranger?_ " he enquired, his voice reedy with age, though still deeper than that of any human.

As was usual when asked this question, N'aethan wondered which name to give. He gave his favourite. " _I am Sin'aethan Shadar Cor,_ " he stated, proudly.

The Elder looked at him for a long moment, with eyes that held centuries of knowledge, then turned to the Ogier maiden. " _Does he speak truthfully, Maram?_ "

The maiden fixed N'aethan with her large eyes, unblinking. Then, she nodded. " _I believe that he does, grandfather._ "

The Elder turned back to N'aethan, his ancient eyes seeming to pierce right through him. He spoke softly; " _it is ill, I think, to imprison He who Shields us from the Shadows of the Night. Release him._ "

Unquestioning, the leader and the youth started forward to do as they were bid, but N'aethan grinned and muttered, " _no need._ " He took a deep breath and flexed his powerful arms. The rawhide bonds snapped with a loud cracking sound and N'aethan stepped away from the tree. He rubbed at the large contusion on his scalp. " _You believe me?_ " he enquired, of the ancient Ogier. " _Some might be sceptical._ "

The Elder shook his head, a small smile twisting his wide mouth. He indicated the Ogier maiden. " _My grand-daughter, Maram, is an excellent judge of character. She would know if you lied._ " He touched his chest. " _I am Elder Hahal._ " He patted the massive shoulder of the big leader. " _This is Balal, who commands the Guardians of Stedding Dashai._ " Balal nodded curtly, seemed to consider a moment, then passed N'aethan his sword, which he promptly sheathed. The Elder pointed his stick at the Ogier youth. " _And I believe you have met his nephew, young Feren._ "

N'aethan eyed Feren. " _You move very quietly for an Ogier… I did not know you were there until it was too late._ "

Feren shrugged his broad shoulders. " _I took my boots off,_ " he explained.

For some reason, the Ogier soldiers found this amusing and deep sounds of mirth resounded through their ranks. Feren's face coloured, his ears twitching again.

Elder Hahal's voice cut through the laughter. " _Tell me, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, in the lands across the sea from which you presumably hail… are there other Ogier?_ " Silence fell as they awaited his response.

N'aethan nodded. " _Renn Sedai told me that there are many stedding in the Westlands, a great many Ogier indeed._ "

Elder Hahal smiled beatifically. " _This is good to know._ " The smile became melancholy. " _We thought we were the last, you see._ "

* * *

"Well, here we are," announced Roth Blucha, Gleeman, "home sweet home!"

'Home' was a collection of rough huts built of driftwood and sections of wrecked ship, clustered behind a tall palisade of felled logs, nestling in a fold of forest at the edge of a sandy beach that descended to the ocean. Further out, beyond the breakers, with his red-tinged gaze Cohradin could see jagged rocks rising from the bay and in one place, what looked like 'masts' and a bit of 'hull' projecting from the water. Cohradin was proud that he now knew these exotic Wetland words. He had learnt them by eavesdropping on the Sea Folk Warder, Jabal. He wondered if the pugnacious fellow was still alive – if any of them were. Well, if they were not, he would see to it that they were avenged. He would personally wake every last one of those painted 'Hawx' people, or his name was not red-eyed Cohradin of the-

"What are those?" asked Manda, pointing with her spear.

Some strange creatures were chewing at the rough, salty grass that grew at the edge of the dunes; they had big ears, large hind legs and long, thick tails. At the approach of Roth and the Shaido, they looked up, made faint bleating noises of alarm, and hopped rapidly into the safety of the forest.

"Oh, _them_ ," said Roth, disinterestedly, "our guide calls them 'walaru.'"

"Can you eat them?" Cohradin wanted to know.

"Well, yes," Roth allowed, "if you can catch them. But I wouldn't recommend it – they taste a bit like rancid goat."

"Goat?" said Chassin, licking his lips.

"Rancid," repeated Roth, pointedly.

Gerom's deep voice rumbled, sounding speculative; "Jain-called-Farstrider, the Wetlander explorer, always posited the existence of a great southern continent, inhabited by giants and talking snakes." Chassin eyed him sceptically.

Roth shook his head. "Well, I haven't seen any giants, and if a snake ever talked to me, I should ignore it."

Cohradin thought about the talking snakes that _he_ had encountered on one of his illicit visits to Forbidden Shara. Had they been real? Had any of it? He certainly hoped not. He decided to avoid saying anything…

They approached the palisade and twenty paces away, Roth paused, reaching into a pocket of his patched cloak and pulling out a conch shell. "Three long blasts and two short?" he muttered to himself, as though trying to remember something. The Shaido shifted impatiently. Roth raised the shell to his lips and blew into it. A choked, spluttering sound emerged. He tried again, with even less impressive results. The Shaido made grumbling noises. Roth sighed, tucked the shell away and cupped a hand to his mouth. "Hoy! Let us in!" he shouted.

After a moment, a squat, bare-chested man appeared at the parapet of the palisade. He wore a grubby woollen hat and his arms were heavily tattooed with anchors, mermaids and other such watery things. Cohradin suspected that he might be a 'sailorman' but couldn't be sure. The man eyed them with disfavour from beneath a heavy brow. He was inexpertly holding a Wetlands crossbow, pointed vaguely in their direction. "You didn't blow the signal," he complained.

Roth shrugged. "I haven't got the lips for it." He raised his harp and strummed it, producing a pleasing sound. "There! _There's_ your bloody signal! Now let us in, Bari!"

Another of what Cohradin presumed to be 'sailormen' appeared next to the first. He was tall and lean, with a lantern jaw and wore a threadbare, striped, woollen jersey. The bald dome of his head gleamed in the bright sunlight. "The Gleeman came back!" he called down to someone below, then looked at them suspiciously. "Those look like Aielmen with you," he observed, disapprovingly.

"I am no _man!_ " shouted Manda, indignantly.

The sailors eyed each other dubiously, then turned their collective gaze on Roth Blucha. The first spoke; "if we let them in, they might stab people with their spears, or set fire to things…"

"And her Ladyship will blame us, not you," added the second sailor, mournfully.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Roth exclaimed, "Jer, you know perfectly well that she blames _me_ for everything! Now open the flaming gate!"

Cohradin knew that he could scale the rough palisade with ease, as could the others, but decided to wait. Grumbling, the sailors disappeared from sight. After a moment, there was a creaking sound and a section of the palisade lowered to the sand, suspended by a rope on either side. A space for three men to walk abreast was revealed. They started forward.

Then, a tall man appeared in the gateway, holding a drawn sword, blocking their entrance. He wore a long coat and trews, shabby and salt-stained, as well as high boots, somewhat scuffed. His dishonourable blade gleamed and looked well cared for, Cohradin noted. The swordsman was young, with reddish hair and a large, carefully tended moustache beneath his aquiline nose. His blue eyes were fierce.

"Aiel," he muttered disparagingly, before asking; "do you stand surety for their good behaviour, Roth?" He had a strange Wetlands accent, lilting and burring.

"Of course, Dagnon." Roth turned to the Shaido. "Behave yourselves!" he hissed. Cohradin frowned. They resumed their approach, but Cohradin paused at the gateway.

"Wait. Where is Chassin?" The Shaido looked around. There was no sign of the diminutive Knife-Hand.

Then, Gerom pointed. "There he is."

Chassin was emerging from the forest, a dead walaru slung over one shoulder. He rejoined them. They looked at him. "What?" he muttered, then added, "the Gleeman said they taste like goat. That is good enough for me."

The tall swordsman, Dagnon, stood grudgingly aside to let them pass. Roth made hurried introductions as they did so. "Dagnon, this is Cohradin, Gerom, Chassin and… and…"

" _Manda!_ " snapped Manda.

"I was about to say that. Shaidos, this is Dagnon do something-or-other…" Dagnon scowled. "He's a sort of Warder, but hasn't got one of those special cloaks because he isn't supposed to be Gaidin."

Cohradin eyed Dagnon, not particularly warily, but with a certain degree of respect. He looked as though he could dance well, and he had the bird on his sword, the Wetland bird that denoted a 'Blademaster.' Cohradin thought that it was called a 'melon' but wasn't sure. He would ask Gerom, if he remembered to.

Dagnon fell in with them. "I am the Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois," he announced, giving Roth Blucha a dirty look.

The Gleeman grinned. "Yes, that's it, I never can remember… Murandian names are so _long!_ "

"Stupid Gleeman!" Manda hissed, "with your meagre memory, how do you ever manage to recall all of your silly songs and stories?"

"Oh, that's different; people pay me silver to remember _those._ Incentive!"

At the centre of the collection of rude huts was a larger cabin, better constructed. It even had rudimentary windows. A rough curtain hung over the entry, in place of a door.

Cohradin's grip tightened on his spear haft as more of the sailors appeared from the other huts, numbering about a score. They were attired much like the first pair, in ragged britches and shirts, arms tattooed for the most part, their feet bare. They stared at the Shaido without much in the way of hostility, more curiosity. They all looked rather thin and sickly, Cohradin couldn't help but notice. The one he presumed to be their leader was a big man with dark skin, wearing an open, brass-buttoned coat over his bare, barrel chest and an odd, three-pointed hat, his long hair plaited into a pigtail. His left hand ended in a stump to which was strapped a wooden plug, a heavy iron hook projecting from it. He had a short, curved sword tucked through his belt, whereas most of the sailors were armed only with knives.

If there was trouble, Cohradin decided that after he had waked the red-moustachioed Warder, he would deal with the big hook-handed fellow next. Then, he would help Chassin cook and eat the walaru, since he was famished. It didn't sound appetising, according to the Gleeman, but he would try to stomach it. Chassin certainly would, he could eat anything, he was known for it.

At the edge of the group stood one who seemed a little different. He was even darker than the big sailor with the hook, had tightly cropped, curly black hair. He wore only a pair of striped, red and white pantaloons, somewhat grubby, with a short, ivory-hilted sword sheathed at his belt. There was something shifty about the fellow, the way his dark eyes darted about. And he had tattoos on his hands, like the Sea Folk Warder did. Atha'an Miere, then. Cohradin decided to kill him third. And _then_ eat the walaru.

The big man with the strange hat addressed Roth; "did ye go to where I said, Gleeman?"

"A mile or so along the beach," Roth answered.

"Good. The currents are favourable there, they flow due north…" The big man raised his voice, addressing the sailors; "relax, boys, one of those fool bottles will make it to the Westlands eventually, travelling at three or four knots, so we can mayhap expect a rescue in twenty or thirty years!"

The sailormen laughed dutifully. The Shaido eyed each other with confusion. What was funny about that? Wetland humour was odd.

Roth indicated the big man. "This is the Bosun. He's Tairen. Doesn't seem to have a name, everyone just calls him 'the Bosun.'"

"Aye, that they do," agreed the Bosun, then shouted at the sailors; "back to your duties, you lollygagging bunch of lackwits!" The sailors dispersed slowly, glancing over their shoulders at the Shaido with curiosity.

Cohradin thought he heard one mutter to another; " _more_ of them!" There was supposed to be an Aiel here, was there not? No sign of him...

The Atha'an Miere sailor lingered, watching them. The Bosun eyed him with disfavour. "You too, Raab. Make yourself scarce. Nothing to see here." The shifty Sea Folk fellow shrugged, and strolled away.

Roth questioned the Bosun; "does Ysmet know we're here?"

The Bosun grinned, revealing several gold teeth that flashed in his dark face. "Her Ladyship has been informed, aye."

At which, the rough curtain over the doorway of the large hut was swept aside and a young woman emerged. She wore a low-cut dress of maroon silk, torn in places. Her dark hair was arranged into two long braids, one over each shoulder, her eyes pale, lips full and sensual. She was very beautiful, dark-skinned and exotic. She also wore the golden snake ring. Aes Sedai, then. She held the curtain aside and another woman exited, having to duck a little to do so. She was taller, equally beauteous, though in a more severe way. Something about her said that she was accustomed to giving orders – and having them obeyed instantly. Her hair was the same colour as the Aes Sedai's, bound back into a single, utilitarian braid, her eyes dark, chin firm. She wore a green divided dress with a wide belt and calf boots. A ceremonial jewelled dagger hung about her neck and a thin sword – what Cohradin thought was called a 'rapier' was buckled at her trim waist. The blade did not look incongruous on her, the woman moved like one trained to the dance. She regarded them coldly, hands on hips. The Aes Sedai ignored them, but smiled a sultry smile at the Murandian Warder. Dagnon may have smiled back, but it was hard to tell with the moustache in the way. He seemed to relax a little under gaze, though. The Gaidin did not choose to sheath his sword, however.

Roth Blucha attempted introductions. "This is Ys-"

"The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar," the woman in the green dress snapped, over-riding him. "Who are you?"

Cohradin stepped forward. Ysmet touched her sword hilt and the Bosun tensed slightly. "I am Cohradin of the Wet Sands Shaido. These are Gerom, Chassin and Manda, also of the Wet-"

" _Shaido?_ " interrupted the Aes Sedai, "why, _you're_ the ones who've been causing all the trouble out east, invading Cairhein and the like!"

"This is Rashiel Sedai," explained Roth, smoothly.

"The land of the Treekillers has been raided once more?" Cohradin frowned. "There are many fine things to be had there – and I am stuck here in Madman Land or whatever it is called, unable to participate and take my rightful share!"

This did not exactly seem to be the right thing to say, both Ysmet and Rashiel scowled at Cohradin, and the Warder, Dagnon, muttered uncomplimentary things under his breath.

Roth attempted to salvage the situation; "what Cohradin _means_ to say is that-"

"Silence, husband!" Ysmet's voice cracked like a whip. She glared at Roth. "You go off to throw one of your silly messages into the sea, and you return-" she turned her disapproving gaze on the Shaido "-with yet more mouths to feed. _Aiel_ mouths at that!"

"We can feed ourselves," declared Chassin, truculently, "there are many more of these strange creatures to be had." But then he dumped the carcass of the walaru unceremoniously at Ysmet's booted feet. "This is for you, though. May we have leave to come into your Hold, Roofmistress?"

Ysmet Mitsobar glanced at Rashiel Sedai, clearly unsure what to say. Rashiel shrugged. Then, Gerom and Manda stepped forward, adding respectively a silver-chased pipe and a small emerald pendant, repeating Chassin's words. Cohradin tore his gaze away from Rashiel's impressive cleavage, sighed, then stepped up and added the Sea Folk knife to the pile. He regretted it, but if Jabal Lionfish's appraisal was correct, it was likely a Shadowrunner dagger and no fit blade for him to use. He had his own knife anyway, a superior weapon, the hilt bound with gara-hide. An ivory grip could slip in the hand…

"I ask leave to come beneath your roof, Ysmet Mitsobar," he growled, somewhat sulkily.

Ysmet eyed the Shaido for a moment, then nodded curtly. "You have my leave," she allowed, "provided that you do no harm to my men." She seemed to relent a little; "and I thank you for these fine gifts…"

"Except for the ill-tasting walaru," Rashiel Sedai muttered.

"Shut-up, Rashiel," Ysmet chided, though in a not unfriendly way.

Cohradin and the others bowed, spear-points stuck in the sand, cupped hands held out. "It shall be as you say, Roofmistress," he stated.

Ysmet blinked, then curtsied gracefully. Rashiel Sedai performed the same action, with an air of parody, leaning forward a little. Cohradin found himself staring at her bust again, and averted his eyes.

Ysmet turned back to the cabin. "We shall speak presently, Aielmen. I should like to know how you got here. Roth! Attend me!"

Roth Blucha smiled in sickly fashion, then reluctantly followed Ysmet inside the large hut. The curtain swished closed behind them. It did little to mask the unmistakeable sound of voices raised in argument.

Rashiel lifted her eyebrows in exasperation. "They're at it again!" She sashayed away, Dagnon falling in step with her, finally sheathing his sword. "Come along Shaido, you really don't want to listen to this and I expect you're hungry." She glanced over her shoulder. "Does anyone require Healing? I'm not very good at it, but I'll do my best…"

Shaking their heads, the Aiel followed her, the Bosun bringing up the rear. Cohradin strained his ears as the sound of shouting diminished behind them, but could make out little of what was being said; accusations on the one part, defensiveness on the other. He wondered what it would be like to be married. He shuddered. He would far rather face the Great Bird of Shara again, than take a wife!

They arrived at a hut guarded by a fair-haired, sunburnt sailor, bearing another crossbow. He jumped at the sight of the Shaido, and stood aside.

"This is where we keep our provisions," Rashiel Sedai explained, "what is left of them, at any rate. We couldn't save much from the wreck." She went inside, they could hear her rummaging around. "Normally we're only allowed one ship's biscuit a day, but you're guests, so I suppose you can have two…" Rashiel re-emerged bearing greyish things wrapped in a handkerchief, and passed them out. Cohradin tried one cautiously. It tasted bad, a little like the wafers in the Nightwatcher's Father's Hold, and he noted that small black things were crawling around inside. "Sorry about the weevils… they get into everything," Rashiel apologised, "but apparently they're good for you."

"Full of nutrition," said the Bosun, and laughed heartily. He strode away, whistling a shanty.

Chassin had finished his second biscuit before any of the others had completed chewing their first bite. Cohradin gave him his. "You would eat your own mother, Chassin," he derided him. Chassin just shrugged and stuffed another weevily biscuit into his mouth.

"So how did you get here, then?" Rashiel Sedai asked curiously.

"A Stone of the Age of Legends, or before even that," Gerom explained.

"It brought our whole ship-boat here," Chassin added indistinctly, speaking with his mouth full.

Manda didn't say anything, she was eyeing Dagnon speculatively. Rashiel noticed, and scowled.

Cohradin regained her attention however. "Ellythia Sedai brought us to this place, with her two friends, also Aes Sedai."

" _Ellyth?_ You don't say… wait, what friends?"

"Shrinalla Sedai and Rennetta Sedai."

" _Shrina?_ And… and _Renn?!_ The last I heard, she was off to Toman Head..."

"Ah, you know of them, Aes Sedai."

"We were novices together. And Accepted. So where are they now?"

"Regrettably, they and their Warders were taken captive by the ones with painted faces, who the foolish Gleeman names 'Hawx.'"

" _No!_ " Rashiel Sedai's face was flushed, her eyes sparking with anger. Dagnon put a placating hand on her shoulder but she shook it off. "We must rescue them!" the Aes Sedai cried.

"That is why we came to here, to make plans for such a venture," Cohradin explained.

"Wait here. I must go and tell Ysmet, because Roth probably hasn't bothered to! I assume that they have kissed and made up by now, but quite frankly, I don't care if they haven't!" Rashiel stalked rapidly away, back towards the cabin, Dagnon trotting after her.

The Shaido looked at each other. Cohradin broke the silence; "you know, the strangest thing about the Wetlands – not that we are in the Wetlands anymore, of course – has been the Aes Sedai. They are certainly not as I expected."

"Not at all," agreed Gerom, passing Chassin his biscuits.

The sailor with the crossbow was gaping at them, Cohradin noticed. He addressed him; "what is your name, wetlander sailorman?"

"Owyn…"

"Owyn, is there anything in that hut that is good to eat and not vile, as these ill-tasting, bug-infested biscuits have proved themselves to be?"

"They are not so bad," observed Chassin indistinctly, whilst chewing. Manda passed him hers.

Owyn blinked. "There is some cheese left, but-"

" _Cheese?!_ " repeated a cracked, oddly-accented voice, "why, I should dearly like some of _that!_ "

The Shaido whirled round, unaccustomed to being successfully sneaked-up upon. A very unusual-looking person stood there. He wore short britches and a jerkin, seemingly fashioned of walaru skin. Long, scraggly white hair and a longer, knotted white beard obscured his features, which bore faded, dark tattoos and rheumy brown eyes peered from a heavily lined face, above a large nose. He cackled loudly, revealing yellow teeth that had been filed into points, at least those few that were not missing.

"Go away, Gen," muttered Owyn the sailor wearily.

The old man did not go away, but instead began to dance an awkward jig, his bare feet scuffing in the sand. In a broken voice, he chanted at the same time; "cheese please, cheese please, cheese please!"

Owyn sighed. "You know you can't have any more, her Ladyship said so!"

The peculiar old man ceased his jigging and scowled furiously. "Not fair!" he hissed. Then, he stood and stared up at the sun awhile, unblinking. "I do think it's going to rain," he muttered.

Cohradin eyed him askance, as did the other Shaido.

"That's Gen," explained Owyn, "he comes from around these parts. He's our guide."

Cohradin blinked. The odd man who sang of cheese was obviously completely crazy… but this _was_ the Land of the Madmen, was it not? No doubt he himself would end up that way, if he stayed here much longer. He addressed the guide, Gen; "tell me, strange fellow," he began, "what know you of the Hawx? They have-"

" _Hawx!_ " squealed Gen, "no! Not them! _Nooo!_ " With that, he turned and ran away surprisingly fast for one of his advanced years, disappearing behind a hut.

"How can one such as he possibly be your guide?" Gerom wanted to know.

"Oh, he has his good days and his bad days," Owyn stated airily. He shrugged apologetically; "and I'm very sorry but I can't let you have any cheese either… orders." The Shaido frowned.

"Open the gate!" an unseen voice shouted, "Ruon returns…"

"That is an Aiel name," observed Gerom.

The Shaido turned and made their way rapidly to the palisade. A rough-hewn ladder led up to the parapet, they scaled it swiftly. They stared, shading their eyes. A tall Aielman, about Cohradin's size, was emerging from the forest, trudging down toward the gate. His cadin'sor was rather shabby and its cut told them that he was a Water Seeker of the Tomanelle Clan. But, strangely for an algai'd'siswai, he seemed to have sliced off his warrior's tail and let his dark auburn hair grow long, down to his broad shoulders. Even stranger, he carried no spear and not even a belt-knife hung at his waist. Instead, he bore a bucket of water in each hand. The Shaido watched as he paced through the open gate, which was hastily hauled up behind him. He went to a large wooden cistern and proceeded to empty the buckets into it.

The Shaido descended the ladder and approached him. "I see you, Ruon," Cohradin called out, wondering if the fellow knew of his bold fight with the other Tomanelle in the cave over the goat. He was somewhat notorious amongst their Clan for this incident, since he had slain one of their people, almost starting a blood feud, and had had to make painful restitution.

The Tomanelle turned and regarded them without much interest. "Shaido," he stated, flatly. "Knife Hands and a Maiden." His face was scarred, but his green eyes were oddly meek, like those of a gai'shain. Which he was not, though doing the work of one.

"What is _wrong_ with you, Ruon?" Cohradin demanded, "where are your spears?"

"I broke them," answered Ruon, tonelessly. "My knife, I threw into a ravine. I had no wish to carry them. I follow the Leaf Way now."

" _What?!_ " Cohradin shouted. Some passing sailors glanced at them curiously, until Chassin glared at them, fingering his knives, and they found reason to be elsewhere.

Ruon gazed at them expressionlessly for a long moment, then sat down on the edge of the cistern, looking weary. "You Shaido, you do not know what happened in the Three-fold Land," he surmised.

"We have been away from our home for a long time," Gerom explained.

"Searching in the Wetlands for the Chief of Chiefs," added Manda.

"The Car'a'carn was found," Ruon muttered. He smiled bitterly. "He Who Comes With the Dawn. Well, he came. I would that he had not."

"Who found him?" Cohradin demanded, "it was not a stinking Shaarad Stone Dog named Gaul, was it?" He had no wish to lose his wager…

Ruon shook his head. "No, it was Rhuarc, Clan Chief of the Taardad, and some others. Perhaps this Gaul was amongst them, I do not know. They found the Chief of Chiefs in Tear and took him back to Rhuidean to fulfil the Prophecy. I myself saw him at Al'cair Dal, I was there as leader of the Duadhe Mahdi'in of our Clan." Ruon eyed them blankly. "That is where Rand al'Thor told us the truth."

"What truth?" Cohradin asked. The other Shaido watched soberly.

Ruon ignored the question, he seemed to be speaking to himself as much as to them. "I went mad for a time, I could not believe it… but the Clan Chiefs confirmed the words of the Car'a'carn, it had to be so… I… I broke my spears. For many days and nights I ran, not eating, not drinking, barely pausing to sleep… finally, I reached the Wetlands, close to death. I _wanted_ to die! But some Lost Ones found me, they took me in, nursed me back to health, taught me their ways… we travelled far together, though I was never one of them. Then, in Illian, I took ship to a distant place, to try to escape my shame." He looked around himself, hopelessness evident in his eyes. "So, here I am."

" _What truth?_ " Cohradin repeated, though he had a sinking feeling inside his stomach, which could not just be attributed to hunger. He did not know what Ruon would say, but he did not think he would like the answer…

Ruon looked at the Shaido with his oddly placid gaze. "We Aiel," he explained, "long ago, in the Age of Legends, we were the Da'shain Aiel and served the Aes Sedai. And we followed the Way of the Leaf. We did no harm. None." He sighed. "We broke the Covenant by taking up the spear… it is a dishonour that can never be assuaged."

The Shaido stared at Ruon. "This explains much," Gerom muttered, "I suspected that _Vron'cor_ was hiding something about us, something terrible…" Chassin looked stricken. Manda gaped.

"But… but…" Cohradin spluttered, "the Nightwatcher confirmed that the Aiel were mighty warriors in the War with the Shadow! He said so!"

For the first time, Ruon's fatalistically meek expression changed. He looked perplexed, even slightly curious. "Did you say _Vron'cor?_ The Nightwatcher?" he enquired, "from the tales our parents told to us?"

Cohradin nodded impatiently. "Yes, the one from the stories… only he is _real!_ We found him!"

Ruon looked vaguely sceptical. "You are telling me that _Vron'cor_ exists?"

"Aye, that he does!" Cohradin scowled ferociously. "Though when next I meet him, he will certainly wish that he did not!"

* * *

Ellyth awoke with a pounding head and a sick taste in her mouth. And she could not touch the Source. For a panicked moment she wondered whether she had been stilled but no, she could still sense the One Power; opening herself to _saidar_ produced nothing though, no rush of sweet sensation such as she was accustomed to, no intensification of the senses.

"If you are trying to channel, then you are wasting your time, barbarian." The voice was velvety and spoke the Vulgar well, though with a strange accent placed on certain vowels.

Ellyth looked up and gasped. The dark-skinned young woman sitting cross-legged across from her wore a simple, grey robe and sandals, her features stern but rather handsome, large eyes almost black, full lips – and entirely tattooed! A network of lines, whorls and dots covered her face.

Ellyth sat up, nursing her aching head. She had been lying on a thin rush mat in what was unmistakeably some kind of a cell. A stone chamber, rather small, bars over the window and a heavy wooden door, bound with iron hasps. If she could channel, she might have smashed that door to pieces in a heartbeat, and made her escape… but she could not.

Ellyth's dark, perceptive gaze returned to her cellmate. The tattooed woman was sitting upon another of the mats and seemed at ease with her situation. Ellyth sat up too, smoothing her skirts over her crossed legs.

"Here," said the young woman, passing her a clay bowl filled with water. Ellyth took it and drank gratefully. It was rather stale and tepid, but helped to wash the ill taste from her mouth. She recalled the events on the beach, the attack of the strange, painted people. Clearly, she had been drugged… where were the others?

"Thank you," Ellyth murmured, lowering the bowl, then added; "why can't I channel?"

The woman smiled bitterly. "There is an artefact here, of the Last Age, which precludes the touching of the Holy Power." Ellyth frowned. It sounded like the Guardian in Far Madding… "I suspect it is why our captors chose this island as their home, to be safe from the Mad Ones. And _us_."

"We are on an island?" Ellyth decided that the best thing she could do with her time was to fish for as much information as possible. She must be patient. She would get her chance to escape, or Naythan would come for her.

The tattooed woman was nodding. "An island, yes, a small one. About one mile offshore from the mainland."

"Where are you from?" Ellyth could not help but ask. She had never seen anyone quite like this person!

Her cellmate seemed happy enough to talk. "Co'dansin. What you barbarians call 'Shara,' I believe."

"Shara! Where the silk comes from?"

"Yes. Where the silk comes from. You are wearing some of it now, I see. Though somewhat besmirched."

Ellyth glanced down at her favourite dark blue gown and sighed. Rips, tears, blood and salt stains. It was ruined. Then, she drew herself up a little. "I am Ellyth," she stated, "may I know your name?"

The tattooed woman eyed her, then shrugged. "Since we are companions in captivity, I do not see why I should not tell you… my name is Dara."

"I am glad to know you, Dara. You can channel, can't you?"

"Yes, of course." Dara pointed at her face. "Why else do you think I have _these?_ "

Ellyth blinked. "In Shara, I mean Co'dansin, those who channel have tattooed faces?"

"Why, certainly. It is the way of things. We are called 'Ayyad' incidentally." Dara glanced at her gold ring. "You are Aes Sedai?"

"I am."

"Tsk. Our captors care little for your kind. And less for mine!" Dara chuckled softly.

It seemed to be a private joke, but Ellyth smiled hesitantly even so. "Who are our captors?" she asked, "those people with the painted faces?"

"Oh, they are barbarians, like you. Though not like you, it would seem. They style themselves 'Hawx.' A foolish name."

"Why do you call us that? Barbarians?"

"Because it is what you are," Dara explained patiently, as though speaking to a child. "All those not of blessed Co'dansin are barbarians. But if the word offends you, I shall not use it."

Ellyth shrugged. "Oh, I don't mind. I've been called worse." Her line of questioning completed for the moment, Ellyth rose and went unsteadily to the window. By standing on tiptoe, she could just glimpse the outside view through it. There was not much to see, just a crenulated wall of rough-hewn granite, the blue sky above… and a flag pole with a long banner whipping in the wind. Ellyth stared at it, trying to make out the design on the flag. The breeze steadied and it stood out straight for a moment. A golden hawk in flight.

"That is Artur Hawkwing's banner," Ellyth muttered confusedly.

Dara joined her at the window. She was taller and did not need to go up onto her toes to view the world outside the cell. "Aye," she agreed, "their High King, as was. They venerate his memory." Her sing-song voice fell into a cadence, as though she were reciting a tale; "one thousand years ago, the barbarian King sent a mighty army in a great many ships to try to invade Co'dansin. They failed, of course. The Ayyad blasted them with the Holy Power, set their ships aflame with lightning and hellfire. Our glorious armies prevailed against those few who were able to land. A massacre." Dara shrugged. "But there were some survivors. They could not go back home, with the dishonour of their defeat, so they came here. And they have been here ever since. Our captors, the Hawx."

Ellyth gaped at her. "Those savages are descended from Artur Hawkwing's lost army?"

"Not savages. Barbarians! Like you, though not like you." Dara smiled, white teeth flashing in her dark face.

Ellyth smiled back. The tattoos were a little alarming, but she found herself quite liking her unusual cellmate. "How did you come to be here?" she asked.

Dara frowned, the lines and whorls on her face shifting. "I wish I knew. My companion and I were being pursued by our own kind, we stood upon the very edge of death. I panicked, and channeled, a weave I had never used before, and a… a _doorway_ of some kind opened, in the air. A different land lay beyond. We ran through and it closed behind us." Dara scowled. "Believe me, I have tried to replicate that weave, many times, to take us away from this dread place, but am unable to. I simply do not remember what I did, or how I did it."

Ellyth's dark eyes widened. "That sounds like the lost art of Travelling! Why, we too came here via-"

Loud footsteps approached from outside. They both looked at the heavy door. There was a muffled jangle of keys, the sound of the lock turning, and the door swung open.

A heavyset, shaven-headed man stood there, wearing a leather jerkin and trews tucked into boots. His eyes were unfriendly. "Come, Aes Sedai," he said, in thickly accented Vulgar. His eyes moved to Dara. "You stay."

"If I could but summon the Power, I would turn you inside out," Dara told him, sweetly. He scowled. Dara then glanced at Ellyth, with a touch of regret. "May the Holy Ones watch over you, Aes Sedai," she said, then added; "that is to say; 'barbarian.'"

Ellyth smiled. "Walk in the Light, Dara." She turned, and staring straight ahead, her posture regal, went to meet her fate.

* * *

"Did you have to light that beastly thing? Couldn't you eat it raw?"

Thaeus glanced up from the small rabbit on a spit that was cooking over the flames, looked over his shoulder. Feir was crouching at the edge of the darkness, eyeing him with disapproval. Her pale eyes seemed to glow a little in the gloom.

"Do you fear fire?" Thaeus enquired.

"I fear nothing!" Feir growled. There was a pause. She sighed. "Well, I suppose I _am_ a little scared of it, actually," she allowed. "I can't help it. It's part of my heritage."

"What heritage would that be?"

"Hmm, well, I suppose I can tell you since you're my Brother's friend and I've decided not to kill you…" Feir considered a moment, then asked; "have you ever heard of the Eelfinn?"

"No."

"What about the Aelfinn, then?"

"Them neither. Sorry."

"The Snakes and the Foxes?"

"The game?"

"The _story._ "

"Bili beneath the Hill?"

"Yes, that's the one. Only his name was Gwili. He was my uncle, sort of. A nice man, he used to bring me presents and sing rude songs when Father wasn't about."

Thaeus laughed. "Bili under the Hill was your _uncle?!_ "

" _Gwili._ Gwilimin Leafwright, Aes Sedai. He built the Ways."

"The Ways? Renn Sedai and her Warder travelled through them. A nasty place, by all accounts."

"Well, they weren't always. But we're getting side-tracked here, pretty man." Feir moved a bit closer, taking care to not look directly at the flames of the small camp fire. "The Eelfinn are the Foxes, from the game _and_ the story. They live in another world, which they call 'Sindhol.' Father went to see them, a very long time ago, and in addition to his knife- _ter'angreal_ and Big Brother's Howling Axe, brought back some of their blood. He used it to make _me._ " She shrugged. "I suppose that I inherited some of their tendencies, that's all." She looked at him suspiciously. "You're not _musical,_ are you?"

"Not particularly," Thaeus responded, "my sister likes to sing, or did before she went to the White Tower, but I have a voice like a sick bullfrog. Can't play any instruments either."

"Good. I absolutely _detest_ music. Don't you dare whistle any tunes. It has a strangely soporific effect on me."

Thaeus raised a hand solemnly. "I promise not to." He lowered his arm, wincing.

"What's wrong with your shoulder?" Feir asked.

"I met some of the inhabitants of this lovely land earlier. Cannibals, actually. We fought, and I took a nasty blow from a club." Thaeus glanced back at the rabbit. Nearly done… The Gholam had sulkily provided the skinny creature, before slipping soundlessly into the forest.

"Let me see."

Thaeus jumped. Feir was crouched right behind him! How she had crossed the intervening space so swiftly was beyond him.

"Take off your coat and shirt," Feir snapped, imperiously.

Thaeus complied.

"Hmm, that's a nasty bruise," Feir commented. Her long fingers pushed and probed at his shoulder. Thaeus hissed with pain. "Don't be a big baby! Well, there's nothing broken, as far as I can tell. You'll be fine in a couple of days, in the meantime I'll make a sling for you." A ripping sound as she tore a length of cloth from his cloak. "One of the Da'shain medics taught me all sorts of useful things about anatomy," she added, conversationally. "I'd Heal you if I could, but my talents don't lie in that direction, unfortunately."

"Thank you," said Thaeus, as she fixed the make-shift sling about his neck.

Feir stood, looking down at him, regarding his bare torso with approval. "You have a fine physique," she observed, then grinned, her sharp teeth flashing in the firelight. "I wish you'd hurt your knee, then I could tell you to take your britches off too!" She laughed, that odd, yipping sound again, and Thaeus joined in. Then they paused, sniffing. "Uh, I think your rabbit is burning…"

Thaeus managed to rescue his meal from the flames, more or less still edible, and set to, ravenous. Feir retreated from the fire a little and knelt smoothly, watching him eat. He glanced up at her, grease on his chin. "Would you like some?" he asked.

Feir shook her head. "I've already eaten, remember?"

"You eat _saidin?_ "

"I most certainly do. Just like the Eelfinn. But don't worry, I'm not remotely like them in many other ways. They're wicked. I'm not. Well, not particularly."

"Oh." Thaeus glanced around the clearing. "Where did the Gholam go?"

"The Gholam? Oh, it's around here somewhere, hunting things and drinking their blood. Horrid creature, Father should have killed it when he had the chance."

"Naythan Shieldman killed a Gholam. He told me about it."

"It's pronounced 'N'aethan' and yes, I know he did. Can't have been easy, they're very tough." Feir sighed. "I've wanted to meet my Brother all my life but… what if he doesn't like me? What if we don't get along?"

"Oh, I'm sure that you will. You're very personable."

Feir frowned. "For a monster."

"If you were a monster, you wouldn't care about the fact that I have a wounded shoulder," Thaeus pointed-out. "You would not have told the Gholam to catch me something to eat. And you wouldn't be worried about what your Brother will think of you."

Feir's mood seemed to brighten. "I suppose." She eyed him curiously. "You say you have a sister?"

Thaeus nodded, his mouth full of rabbit.

"And… and parents?"

Thaeus swallowed. "My mother is dead, my brothers also, but I have a father. Lord Guye, scion of House Desiama."

"He sounds rather grand. So what's it like, having a family?"

Thaeus thought about it. "Comforting. Infuriating. Supporting." He shrugged, then winced, and returned to the rabbit. Before long, there were just bones left. He tossed them into the fire, glanced at Feir, then kicked dirt over it.

Feir sighed with relief and rose, approaching him. The starlight lit her fine features, her graceful movements. "All done?" she asked. Thaeus nodded. She smiled wickedly, then drew the bronze blade and threw it point-first into the earth. She unbuckled her belt and let it drop to the ground. Finally, she removed her dress with a single, deft motion. She wore nothing beneath. Her supple, dancer's body held his attention, Thaeus felt his pulse quicken. He rose.

"Time for dessert," said Feir softly, wrapping long arms about Thaeus' bare shoulders, pressing her lithe form to his and kissing him full on the mouth. Thaeus hesitated, but then responded in kind. They sank down to the grass, twined together.

In the distance, an animal screamed in the night as the Gholam killed it.

* * *

" _Cake?_ " enquired the Ogier maiden Maram in the Old Tongue, her voice a low contralto compared with the deep baritones of the males.

N'aethan's eyes widened. " _Cake!_ " he cried enthusiastically, in the same language, " _why, I haven't had cake for more than three thousand years!_ "

Maram raised her delicate eyebrows and proffered a large, Ogier-sized plate full of large, Ogier-sized pieces of fruit cake. N'aethan took a slice. He wondered how he was going to be able to eat it all. He sat in a large, Ogier-sized sung-wood chair, his booted feet dangling above the tiled floor, within an ornate yet comfortable subterranean room built amongst the roots of one of the Great Trees.

Elder Hahal sat across from him, Maram was serving tea and the aforementioned cake and there were six other Ogier Elders present, also seated; three male and three female. All were ancient and exuded wisdom and patience, though none more so than Hahal, who led their council. Balal and Feren were also there, though they had not been offered seats. N'aethan rather wished that he had not either, he felt like a child, his legs swinging in the overlarge chair.

Elder Hahal refused the offer of cake, muttering something about his poor digestion. N'aethan noted that all of the Ogier spoke the Old Tongue in his hearing, out of deference to their guest, he supposed. He took a cautious sip of his tea from a cup the width of a soup bowl. It tasted rather bitter and wasn't like the other tea being drunk, but contained herbs that Maram had assured him would ease his aching head. N'aethan glanced around at the burnished wooden walls, the polished roots that flowed overhead like asymmetrical roof beams.

Maram moved over to Balal and Feren, her gait graceful as a willow bending in the breeze. Balal shook his head curtly at the offering. Maram then placed a large piece of cake on a dish and gave it to Feren, smiling. He took it clumsily, nearly dropping it, his ears twitching furiously. N'aethan repressed a grin. _That_ young fellow would soon find himself married if he wasn't careful! He knew something of Ogier ways, and was glad that they were not _his_ ways.

" _Are you feeling better now, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor?_ " Elder Hahal asked gravely.

N'aethan nodded and took another sip of the tea. It seemed to be helping, his headache was gradually fading away. " _Um… you don't have to call me that every time, honoured Elder… 'N'aethan' will be fine. Or 'Lightborn' if you prefer. The full title takes rather a long time to say, don't you find?_ "

Elder Hahal shrugged. " _It does not seem so long to me_."

" _Ah, but you are_ Ogier! _I recall that the warriors who served with us against the Shadow, the Alantin Guard, gave me a name in their own tongue that was_ very _long indeed!_ "

" _Yes, we know,_ " said a female Elder, her voice a musical burr. " _All of your names are recorded in the histories._ "

" _We know of your deeds,_ " added a male Elder in his deep tones, " _particularly of how you preserved Stedding Mospha from the wrath of the insane Companion, Goaeur Rantoel._ " A buzz of appreciation rose from the Elders. Balal nodded approvingly. Feren and Maram were staring at him, wide-eyed – which, for an Ogier, was very wide indeed.

N'aethan shifted uncomfortably in his huge chair. " _I was only doing my duty,_ " he mumbled. " _I'm glad you remember me, though,_ " he added, " _the humans certainly don't. Except for the Aiel, and they have it all back to front…_ "

Elder Hahal raised his impressive eyebrows. " _There are yet Da'shain in the world? This is good news, almost as good as that of our cousins to the north._ "

" _Yes, I suppose. They have changed a great deal._ "

" _What has not?_ "

" _True. But all the other humans have no recollection of the Lightborn, or Father. Though there is a tale told of my Brothers, I hear…_ "

" _Humans lead such short lives,_ " muttered another of the male Elders. " _Commensurately, their knowledge of history is equally poor._ "

N'aethan nodded, thinking about Ellythia Sedai. Ellyth. She was Aes Sedai, her life would be far from short… they could live a long time together, if fate smiled on them. The thought attracted him and scared him at the same time. It was all very confusing…

" _Humans are a curse!"_ snapped a severe-looking female Elder, " _they raid our orchards, despoil our fields, fell our trees..."_ There was no doubt as to which she considered the worse crime. A rumble of agreement from the other Elders. Balal looked very grim for a moment.

" _This is why you kill humans on sight, if they trespass on your stedding?"_ N'aethan posited _._

Elder Hahal nodded. " _Indeed._ " His demeanour became melancholy. " _There were once five inhabited stedding in this accursed land. Now there is but one – Stedding Dashai. We are all that is left._ " A deep sigh from the other Elders, like a gust of wind.

" _What happened?_ " N'aethan asked indistinctly, around a mouthful of cake. It was very good. He swallowed hastily, brushing crumbs from his coat with a gloved hand.

" _The savages alone could not prevail against us,_ " answered Balal in his deep bass, " _but the forces of the Laughing God are strong. One by one, the other stedding have fallen, burnt and defiled, their denizens massacred or fled to here._ "

The Elders nodded, their hairy ears drooping. The female Elder who had spoken harshly of humans had unshed tears in her large eyes. " _I myself hail from Stedding Washaw,_ " she stated. " _It fell nearly one hundred years ago._ " Another Elder touched her shoulder in commiseration. " _The trees there were very beautiful,_ " she whispered.

N'aethan blinked. " _Who is this 'Laughing God?'_ " he wondered. The second word was unfamiliar to him.

Elder Hahal answered. " _An insane male channeler. Very powerful. Very old. He is as mad as all of the others that plague this unhappy land, but his madness is of a different kind._ "

" _He dreams of conquest,_ " rumbled Balal, " _of ruling over everything._ "

" _A common ambition amongst Madmen,_ " N'aethan commented. The Elders nodded in agreement. " _Would you like me to kill this Laughing God for you?_ " N'aethan offered. " _I should be happy to oblige._ "

The Elders stared at him in surprise. " _Even Sin'aethan Shadar Cor might find that a difficult task,_ " Elder Hahal replied, " _he is closely guarded, his followers fanatical._ "

" _I am sure he is and I am sure they are, but I can attempt it even so._ " N'aethan ticked off his tasks on thick, powerful fingers. " _First I must go to the Dragon College…_ " The Ogier Elders shifted in their chairs at the name of this place and looked at each other uncertainly. " _Then, I must locate Ellythia Sedai's missing brother and return him to her… and_ then _I will find this Laughing God and execute him for the crimes of burning stedding and murdering Ogier civilians._ " N'aethan looked up and closed his gloved hand into a fist. " _And finally, I should like to go back to the Westlands and visit the White Tower of the Aes Sedai. I hear there is a message awaiting me there, a final communication_ _from an old friend._ " Or enemy. A bit of both, perhaps. Concerning Kiam Sedai, he had never been quite sure…

Elder Hahal blinked his large eyes. " _It shall be as you say, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. If you can accomplish the end of our ancient enemy and his reign of terror, Stedding Dashai shall owe you a great debt._ " The other Elders nodded. Balal was looking sceptical, Feren and Maram hopeful.

" _The tea and cake will suffice for the debt… and perhaps a bed for the night? I shall leave at dawn, there is much to do._ "

" _But of course._ " Elder Hahal looked less melancholic now, as did the others. " _But before you retire, tell us what you know of the Ogier of the Westlands, if you please._ "

N'aethan was feeling tired and not particularly in the mood for exposition, but he liked Elder Hahal, so humoured him. " _I only know what little Renn Sedai mentioned to me… there are many stedding, mostly located in the less populated areas. The Ogier do not have much to do with humans, though the two races seem to live together peaceably enough. Oh, and skilled Ogier masons built the early human cities that were constructed after the Breaking of the World. Fine architecture, apparently._ "

" _Ogier that work as masons?_ " uttered young Feren excitedly, " _who work with_ stone?" The Elders looked at him with disapprobation. The Ogier youth fell silent, his ears wilting. " _Forgive my interruption, honoured Elders,_ " he muttered.

Elder Hahal smiled. " _I can forgive much of our most talented Treesinger,_ " he allowed. Feren blushed.

" _Yes, Treesinging,_ " said N'aethan, recalling, " _that is a talent that is apparently dying out amongst the Ogier of the Westlands._ " He eyed Balal and Feren's armour. " _Not so much here, it would seem…_ "

Elder Hahal frowned. " _I am sorry to hear that. We value sung-wood for its useful properties rather than its aesthetic value. We have many fine Treesingers amongst us._ "

" _Necessity breeds capability,_ " commented Balal, in his deep voice.

" _Indeed,_ " agreed N'aethan, then furrowed his brow quizzically. " _There is one thing that I have been wondering..?_ "

" _Speak, and I shall answer if I can,_ " said Elder Hahal.

" _Well… you don't seem surprised to see me. It has been near four thousand years since I last walked in the world._ "

" _And yet, here you are, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. That period of time is but eleven or twelve generations for we Ogier. We recall much that is lost to humans. It was foretold to our ancestors that you were not dead, that you would eventually return… and so you have!_ "

" _Who foretold it?_ "

" _Your Father, the Aes Sedai, Chaime Kufer. He was always a good friend to the Ogier of these lands. They say he even spoke our tongue… to a degree._ "

" _Oh, he spoke many languages…_ " N'aethan agreed vaguely, his mind working furiously. What was Father up to this time? Telling the Ogier that he would be back, sending him to the Dragon College on some mysterious errand, inscrutable as ever…

" _Where have you been all this time, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor?_ " Feren blurted, still holding his uneaten cake gingerly.

The Elders looked at Feren coldly, Balal frowned. The Ogier youth blushed. " _Sorry,_ " he muttered.

" _Feren,_ " growled Balal, in soft tones, " _you know of the rose bushes next to the Great Stump?_ "

" _Yes, of course, uncle._ "

" _Go and guard them for a while, would you? I fear that they may be in danger._ "

" _At once, Balal!_ " They watched as Feren retrieved his club from where it leant against the wall and hastened from the room. Some of the Elders smiled.

Elder Hahal spread his large hands in apology. " _Forgive the youth, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. He is overly hasty._ "

" _He is curious,_ " revealed Balal of his nephew. " _A bit too curious,_ " he added, darkly.

Maram placed the teapot and cake plate on a sung-wood table. " _Excuse me grandfather, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor, I will go and help Feren protect the rose bushes from harm…_ " she explained, a little breathlessly, then left the room with swift steps. This time, all of the Elders smiled.

Elder Hahal turned back to N'aethan. " _It is, of course, your business where you have been for so long,_ " he said. It was clearly a question, but framed as a statement.

N'aethan shrugged his broad shoulders. " _Oh, but it is a valid query and I do not mind answering; I have been inside a stasis box._ " A buzz of interest from the Elders. " _An Aes Sedai freed me from its confines. I serve her now._ " And sort of love her too, he added privately.

" _This explains much,_ " whispered Elder Hahal, " _only a stasis box could survive the Breaking of the World._ "

" _That and the Dragon College._ "

" _You mean to go there, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor? Take care if you do, for it is a bad place. A dangerous place, even._ "

" _Oh, I know_ that. _I will be careful._ " N'aethan grinned, his sharp teeth flashing. " _I was born there, true – but I assure you that I have no intention of dying there._ "

* * *

In the stone corridor outside the cell, a half-dozen soldiers awaited Ellyth. They were different from those who had captured them – in place of paint, they wore ornate steel masks over the top halves of their faces, fashioned like a hawk's visage, complete with a cruel curved beak that covered their noses. The mouths beneath these masks were set and grim. Two of the soldiers were female; all had swords sheathed at their belts, no two blades alike. Instead of the buckskin garments, they wore dark coats and britches tucked into boots. A silver hawk in flight was emblazoned on the front of their uniforms.

The leather-clad gaoler indicated that she should go with them; as if it were her choice, Ellyth paced down the corridor, back straight, head held high. The soldiers fell into step around her. Was she being taken to her execution? "Where are we going?" she asked the soldier next to her. An abbreviated red plume projected from the top of his mask, marking him out as the leader.

Cold eyes flicked towards Ellyth through the holes in the mask. "The Throne Room," the man answered shortly, in thickly accented Vulgar.

"Oh. Where are my companions?"

"Enough questions, witch! Wait and see…"

This precluded any further conversation. Ellyth proceeded to be escorted through what proved to be a large castle of rough-hewn granite by her silent guards, up steps, down hallways, along galleries overlooking empty courtyards.

At one point, Ellyth glanced out of a window and stopped abruptly. On a hill beyond the castle loomed a tall, three-sided silver tower. It looked like something left over from the Age of Legends, such as she had seen at World's End. She could also sense that it was a _ter'angreal_ , even from half a mile away. Easily the largest and most powerful _ter'angreal_ that she had ever encountered. She knew without having to ask that this was what prevented her from touching the True Source. It was presumably as potent as the Guardian in Far Madding, but she could not be sure, since she had never been there; dear Atual would not have liked it, he had loathed the city of his birth…

The plumed leader shoved her rudely. "Keep moving!"

Ellyth glared, but did as she was bid. As they continued on their way, she saw no-one else, no more soldiers, nor servants either. The entire castle seemed deserted. Then, she became aware of the low buzz of voices in the distance. The noise increased as they got closer to it. They came to a broad hallway with more hawks emblazoned on the tiles beneath their feet – Ellyth was getting a little tired of the sight of the dratted things! – and broad, high double-doors at the end. The doors swung open as they approached, the sound of the voices increasing as they did so. The large chamber beyond, lit by numerous stand-lamps – the Throne Room, Ellyth assumed – was full of people. The missing soldiers and servants mostly; and nearest the throne itself - a black obsidian chair shot with veins of red, up on a dais with carven steps leading to it - stood what were presumably the most important people, wearing flowing robes of an odd cut, their braided hair long and hanging down their backs. The throne itself stood empty; above it, in bas-relief, was carved a huge hawk, its wings spread wide. Along either side of the room, set in alcoves, were numerous statues; all women, all wearing robes and diadems, their features cruel and cold. They looked ancient, as well as similar, as though they were all related to one another. The crowd of people fell silent as they entered, all eyes fixed on Ellyth; then the conversation gradually resumed.

Ellyth was led towards the dais and as people moved aside, she beheld Shrina standing before it, surrounded by six more guards. Additional soldiers lined the walls; all wore the hawk masks, all had swords, though everyone else was seemingly unarmed. Ellyth and Shrina smiled at the sight of each other and embraced warmly.

"Where is Renn?" Shrina asked.

"I thought that she was with you."

Shrina shook her head, then glared at one of the guards, a slight female soldier. "That one there – she has my sword!" she hissed, furiously.

It was true; the curved-forward Saldaean blade was sheathed at the woman's belt.

"Hopefully she can't read the Vulgar poetry on it, yes?" Ellyth observed dryly.

"Silence!" snapped the plumed soldier, the leader.

Glumly, they fell silent. Presently, the double-doors at the end of the chamber opened again and Renn came in, surrounded by six more guards. She looked about herself with interest, confusion also. Shrina waved at her and she smiled and came over, the soldiers moving with her.

"There was the most peculiar person in my cell," Renn told them, "an ancient wilder who claimed that-"

"Quiet!" barked the leader of the soldiers.

"Peculiar? You should have seen _my_ cellmate," Ellyth muttered, ignoring him.

"My cellmate is this big _rat_ ," Shrina observed mournfully. "Why can't I touch the Source?" she added.

Ellyth opened her mouth to explain.

"Silence, witches! The next one to speak loses their tongue!"

Ellyth closed her mouth. She wished her tongue to stay where it was.

A gong sounded, deep and sonorous, and the crowd of courtiers ceased their conversation, a wave of expectancy surging through those who stood in attendance. A rotund man in servant's livery appeared through a side doorway. "She comes!" he announced loudly, "the Blood of the Hawkwing comes!" At once, the assembled throng sank to their knees.

Ellyth wondered whether to do likewise, but the decision was made for her by a guard; a hard hand clamped down on her shoulder and pushed. She found herself kneeling next to Shrina and Renn. Only the hawk-masked soldiers remained standing, ever vigilant. More of these soldiers promptly trooped into the Throne Room, followed by a tall, severe-looking woman in a pleated robe of dark purple, her long, braided hair falling almost down to her ankles. A young maiden in a shimmering white gown followed; she wore an elaborate head-dress of hawk's feathers, a sulky expression on her pretty face. More soldiers followed.

Ellyth watched the tall woman carefully as she stepped onto the dais; but then, to her surprise, she merely took up a position next to the throne while the maiden sat down upon it. She couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen years old – _this_ was their ruler? The girl gazed at the kneeling courtiers with dark, arrogant eyes for a long moment, then made an upward gesture with a heavily be-ringed hand.

"The High Princess bids you stand," intoned the servant. The crowd rose to their feet, the three young Aes Sedai doing likewise.

The Princess' eyes turned to the prisoners. She seemed about to address them, then paused, glancing around. "Where is Rags?" she enquired, in cut-glass tones. She raised her voice; " _Rags!_ "

"Coming your Majesticness, coming!" The voice was high-pitched and squeaky; it emerged from an odd-looking fellow who had appeared in the side doorway. He wore a patched shirt and pantaloons, multi-coloured, a little like a Gleeman's cloak; except that there were small silver bells sewn all over his costume, that jangled when he moved. His shoes tapered into long points to which more bells were attached. He was very short, almost dwarfish, and rather ugly. His hair was long, lank and yellow, his eyes a pale blue. He capered over to the dais and sat down on the steps at the Princess' slippered feet.

"There, that is better," remarked the High Princess, leaning forward and patting Rags on the head as though he were a dog. "Now we may proceed." Her imperious gaze moved back to the Aes Sedai prisoners. "Announce me, and find out what their names are," she murmured in an aside to the tall woman.

The woman spoke, her voice stern and surprisingly deep; "you stand in the presence of Chantel Paendrag Talvor, High Princess of the Blood, direct descendant of the Great Hawkwing. What are you called, Aes Sedai? Answer!"

The three young Aes Sedai looked at each other, then Ellyth took a step forward. The soldiers tensed, hands on their hilts. "I am the Lady Ellythia of House Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah."

Shrina's turn. "Shrinalla Tolamani of the Do Miere A'vron and the Green Ajah. The _Battle_ Ajah," she added, defiantly.

Renn was staring at the carving of the hawk above the throne with interest. She did not seem to be attending… The High Princess shifted impatiently on her throne, and scowled.

"Renn!"

"Introduce yourself!"

"Hmm? Oh, I'm Renn, of the Brown. Renn Faltrey, that is. Your Majesty."

The High Princess Chantel looked at them curiously. "So _you_ are Aes Sedai? I have never seen one, not a _real_ one anyway, just pretend ones, though have always wished to. You are not what I expected. Not at all." She eyed Renn disapprovingly. "Especially you."

Renn blinked.

Rags unexpectedly sat up straight and shouted; "they broke the burning world in two – if you're nice to them they'll be nice to you!"

"Shut-up, Rags. Don't be silly." The High Princess turned to the tall woman by her side. "Ask them why they speak the Vulgar, and not the Old Tongue."

"Why do you speak the Vulgar, and not the Old Tongue?"

Renn answered; "the Vulgar is in regular parlance in the Westlands now, only scholars and nobles speak the Old Tongue." She paused. "I speak it," she added, as an afterthought.

"I see." The High Princess Chantel addressed Renn directly. "Nobles? You mean, the Blood?"

"I suppose, your Majesty…"

"How strange. But much time has passed since the Hawkwing's day." The High Princess raised her voice; "but we remember. We keep faith." A murmur of assent and approval from the crowd of courtiers. "For example, did you know that my illustrious ancestor, the High King, put a price on the heads of all Aes Sedai? That he laid siege to Tar Valon for twenty years?" Chantel did not await an answer, but turned smugly to the tall, serious-looking woman. "You see, Severina? I _did_ pay attention to _some_ of my lessons."

"Some of them, Highness," agreed Severina, neutrally.

"Not many!" muttered Rags.

"Be silent, Rags!" The High Princess turned back to the Aes Sedai. "Why did you come here, to my dominion? To cause trouble? To break the world again?"

Ellyth shook her head. "We sought to escape our foes. A Darkfriend wilder and her Shadowspawn horde."

"Shadowspawn? Why, those are but tales to frighten young children! There's no such thing!" The High Princess giggled girlishly, a hand over her mouth. Some of her courtiers laughed fawningly also.

"I would that were so," Ellyth said sadly, thinking of Atual's death at the hands of a Myrddraal.

"Shadowspawn are real enough," Shrina interjected, "we have fought them many times." She scowled. "Where are our Warders? I can't sense my boys. What have you done with them?"

"You are here to answer questions, not ask them, witch!" snapped Severina.

The High Princess raised a placating hand. "Come now, Sev, no need for that. There is no harm in their knowing that their armsmen are being held in close confinement." She shrugged. "They keep trying to escape, you see." She glanced at Shrina accusingly. "Come forward, Kor."

A tall man in a long robe stepped from the front of the throng. It took Ellyth a moment to recognise him as the leader of those who had attacked and captured them. He looked quite different without the war-paint and the buckskins…

"Tell me, cousin, is this the one who slew two of your men?" The High Princess Chantel indicated Shrina.

Kor's cold eyes moved to her. "She is, Majesty. The Aes Sedai witch used her dark powers to draw the lightning down from the sky. She burned them."

"Then she must die." The High Princess' voice was final. Severina nodded approvingly. Rags pulled a face.

Shrina sneered. "Kill me, then. I am not afraid to die. As I told you, I am of the Battle Ajah."

"But it was self-defence!" Ellyth cried, "your soldiers attacked us unprovoked!"

"To come uninvited to my lands is provocation enough," the High Princess pointed-out, somewhat pompously.

"We intended to take you alive for questioning!" Kor snapped, "your Aiel savages killed ten more of my best hunters, and the Sea Folk Warder another!"

"Then he must die too," observed the High Princess.

"Death is so _final,_ " complained Rags, "couldn't you just be _kind_ to them instead?"

"Hush, Rags." The High Princess smiled brightly. "By the way, what do you think of my fortress?"

Ellyth and Renn eyed each other. The girl was rather quixotic…

"It is very nice…" answered Renn, haltingly.

"It took near two-hundred years to build. We are all very proud of it." The courtiers murmured approvingly, some applauding sycophantically.

"Please," Renn began, "the Atha'an Miere Gaidin – Jabal – he is my husband… he was only trying to defend my person, punish me, not him!"

The High Princess Chantel blinked, and turned to Severina. "Isn't it a little _unusual_ for an Aes Sedai to marry?" she enquired.

"It is, Highness. But I do not believe it is entirely unknown."

"Odd indeed!" The High Princess turned back to them. "Well, now _that_ is settled, there remains but one question…" She leant forward in the throne, her dark, merciless gaze fixed on the Aes Sedai. "How, in the name of the Hawkwing's soul, did your ship come to be in the middle of a _forest?_ "

* * *

As the dawn sun arose, Thaeus lay on his back in the grass, Feir curled against him, her head resting on his shoulder. His unwounded shoulder, he was glad to say. The other ached a little more, from the exertions of the night, but he felt surprisingly content, more so than he had done in a long time. Well, he had this strange, rather forward young woman to thank for that!

Feir was awake too, slowly trailing a long fingernail down his bare chest, towards where his black cloak covered them both. Thaeus sighed happily.

"Well, that was pleasant," Feir commented softly, then added as an afterthought; "it was my first time with a man, you know."

Thaeus blinked. "It certainly didn't seem like it," he muttered.

Feir chuckled. "Oh, one of Father's Courtesan friends taught me a thing or two… how to seduce men, how to please them, and so forth…"

"You seem to have made a habit of acquiring useful skills from people who weren't actually your tutors."

"Why, that's exactly it! I never could stand my lessons, so I used to sneak off and find others I could learn from." Feir laughed, the odd yipping sound he was becoming accustomed to. "Trust me, you don't want to know what I've learned from the Gholam over the years…"

"I'm sure I don't." Thaeus looked at Feir curiously. "How many years?"

"Oh, about fifty, give or take."

" _Fifty?_ "

"Why, yes. We've journeyed from one end of the continent to the other, many times. I know everything there is to know about this dire place. The Gholam has been my sole companion, ever since it woke me from the stasis box. I was sixteen when I entered it."

"So you're about sixty-six? But you don't look any older than me!"

"I thank you, milord. I take it that was a compliment?"

"But…"

"I'm _Lightborn,_ Thaeus. A Construct, and a rather fine one, if I say so myself. Father made me to _last._ "

"I see." Thaeus eyed her uncertainly. "How long do you think you will live?"

"Not much longer if I don't get something to _eat._ " Feir raised herself up on one elbow, looking a little hesitant, which was unusual for her. "Thaeus, would you mind awfully embracing the Source? Opening yourself to _saidin?_ You don't have to if you don't want to."

Thaeus looked up at Feir. There was a glistening tattoo on her left breast, a red diamond shape. "I don't mind. I'll try, but I'm not very good at it." Thaeus let himself slip into the void and reached out. Nothing happened on his first two attempts, but he persevered and felt sickness and sweetness filling him.

Feir narrowed her pale eyes, seeming almost to inhale. And the _saidin_ flowed out of him, leaving him feeling drained. Relief and disappointment vied with each other. Feir fell back onto the grass, sighing with pleasure. "Ah, that was nice. Thank you, milord."

"Pray don't mention it." Thaeus gazed at her curiously. "What is that mark on your… your chest?"

Feir sniggered. "You mean my _breast?_ It's my Lightmark, stupid! All Lightborn have them. It is the symbol for 'four' in the Root Speech. Because I'm the Fourthborn, the fourth Lightborn – the foxy one! My name means 'four' too."

"My name doesn't mean anything," Thaeus muttered, lying back, sliding an arm around Feir's shoulders. She sighed contentedly, leaning against him.

"I would that I had gone to the wars," Feir whispered, a hint of regret in her voice. "I could have fought Dreadlords and Companions and earned names of honour, like my Brothers did."

"Well, they say that the Last Battle is coming. If you fight for the Light, I am sure you will be accounted a Hero."

"Heroine, actually. That might be nice, but I have another task assigned to me."

"Which is?"

"Sorry milord, you're awfully pretty and I rather like being with you, but I can't tell. It's a task for my Brother and me only. Father said so."

"You're overly mysterious," Thaeus complained. "And you're-"

A shadow fell over Thaeus and Feir. He immediately reached for his sword, then paused. It was the Gholam, looking down at them, its expression unreadable. Feir eyed it disapprovingly. "You've got blood on your chin, Gholam," she observed. The Gholam still didn't say anything, but wiped it off. "What do you _want?_ "

The Gholam ignored the question. "So you've started sleeping with the food, have you?" it enquired, in its soft, sinister voice.

"I _told_ you, he's not food! Not for you, anyway." Feir turned to Thaeus, smiled, and kissed him. "I _do_ find him rather succulent, though…"

The Gholam seemed to frown, though it was hard to tell.

Feir sighed with exasperation and rose smoothly, hands on hips. Thaeus wrapped the cloak about his shoulders and sat up, eyeing her fine, lithe form with aesthetic approval.

"What have I told you about bothering me in the mornings, Gholam? You know I like to sleep late!"

The Gholam made a grumbling sound. "I would not have disturbed you, Mistress, but a Madman approaches. He is walking in this direction,and will be here soon enough."

"Well, why didn't you _say_ so, instead of wasting time casting aspersions on my morals, when you know perfectly well I don't have any!" Feir glanced down at Thaeus. "Strange, a Madman this far north. Usually they roam around the wastelands in the centre, where the volcanoes are concentrated."

"That is where I was going when I met you!" Thaeus exclaimed.

"Very prescient of you. You wouldn't have lasted long, though. There are Madmen much stronger in the Power than you are down there. They destroy each other, as well as the natives." She frowned. "And there are other things that live there too, that are even worse. The Gholam and I dwelt there for a while. It was horrid…" Feir paused, raised an eyebrow. "What are you staring at?"

Thaeus grinned, rising, the cloak wrapped about him. "You! And a fine sight you are too…"

"Huh! _Men!_ " Feir stalked away and slipped back into her dress. Then she turned, regarding Thaeus salaciously. "Lose the cloak, handsome!"

"Why?"

"You looked at me. I want to look at you. It's only fair."

"I suppose… send the Gholam away, though."

"Gholam, go and keep an eye on the Madman. I'll be along presently."

The Gholam scowled, and slipped soundlessly into the bushes.

Feeling vaguely foolish, Thaeus let the cloak drop to the ground. He wondered if he ought to strike some sort of a pose, like an artist's model? But Feir seemed happy enough, looking him up and down. She made a lewd, whistling sound. Thaeus blushed.

"Alright, that's good enough for me. You can get dressed now." Thaeus turned and went to get his garb, trying to ignore the resulting remark about his 'beautiful bottom.' Feir certainly wasn't like the demure Amadici maidens he was accustomed to… she wasn't like anyone he had ever met, for that matter. Except perhaps for her brother, Naythan Shieldman.

Both clothed, they faced each other across the clearing, a little uncertainly. Then, Thaeus smiled and performed an elegant bow, hampered a little by his arm being back in the sling. "Will you walk out with me, my Lady?" he enquired.

Feir blinked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It is what we say in my homeland of Amadicia, when we meet a woman we like and wish to spend time with," he explained.

Feir grinned. "Oh, so you want to be my _beau?_ "

Thaeus wasn't sure what the word meant, but he could make an educated guess. Feir moved towards him with the unearthly grace he found so fascinating. "I've never had a lover," she mused, "not a real one, anyway. Only imaginary ones…" She draped her slim arms about his neck and they kissed. "Very well. I shall be your… Lady?"

Thaeus smiled. "Good."

"Come along. Time enough for canoodling later – and other things besides!" Feir nodded in the direction the Gholam had disappeared. "We'd better go and deal with that Madman, before he hurts someone."

"How shall we deal with him?" Thaeus wondered.

"We'll _kill_ him, of course. How else?" Silently, Feir moved into the trees at the edge of the clearing.

Thaeus followed, feeling troubled. His Lady was rather… atavistic, he felt.

* * *

N'aethan left Stedding Dashai at dawn. But for a few guards along the perimeter, the Ogier were all still asleep. This suited him, he had never much cared for goodbyes. This was probably why he had not troubled to say his farewells to Kiam Sedai, that last time, though he had left her a note. He wondered if it had been rash, to offer to kill this Laughing God and save the _stedding_ … but he had done it now. It sounded far from easy, but he liked a challenge. The conquest-minded _souvraniene_ could not be worse than facing a Companion, surely? He hoped Ellythia Sedai would understand. Probably not. He thought about her as he strode through the trees. He wished to hold her in his arms again, he wanted to kiss her delicate lips, he-

N'aethan paused, frowning. Someone was definitely following him. He waited. Presently, young Feren appeared, striding along, sung-wood club propped on his shoulder, a heavy knapsack on his back. It bulged with rectangular objects – books doubtless, knowing Ogier. The youth paused at the sight of N'aethan, blinking his large eyes, ears twitching nervously. N'aethan noted that he was not wearing his helmet or armour now, just a simple long coat, britches and boots with the tops rolled down.

" _What do you want?_ " he demanded of the Ogier youth, speaking the High. " _Have you come to hit me on the head again?_ "

" _No!_ " spluttered Feren, using the Old Tongue, " _I said I was sorry about that!_ " He calmed a little. " _I want to come with you, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor. I want to see the Dragon College and… and other things besides. I'm running away!_ "

N'aethan laughed, the strange mewling sound he made when amused. " _What of the maiden, Maram? She'll definitely miss you. She_ likes _you, Feren – why, I saw her give you the largest piece of cake!_ "

" _Well, I like her too… at least I think that I do…_ " Feren's voice rose to a near wail; " _but I'm only ninety-five! I'm too_ young _to get married!_ "

N'aethan waved his gloved hands in the air. " _Hush, foolish Treebrother! The Guardians might hear you._ " He considered. " _Very well, you may come with me, but don't slow me down and if I tell you to do something, you must do it!_ "

" _I will! Thank you, Sin'aethan Shad-_ "

" _Sss! The first rule is to call me 'N'aethan.' Got it?_ "

" _Yes N'aethan. Sorry N'aethan._ "

" _Come on. Time's wasting._ "

They set off, the young Ogier easily keeping up with his long strides, even though N'aethan forced the pace. Presently, the mysterious aura of the _stedding_ abruptly vanished as they entered the world outside.

Feren sighed deeply. " _It feels different,_ " he muttered.

" _Ever been out of the stedding before?_ "

" _No… never._ "

" _You don't get the Longing, do you?_ "

" _What is that?_ "

" _Never mind._ "

They continued walking. In the distance, the _Collam Aman_ rose above the forest. N'aethan tore his eyes from it and glanced up at Feren. There was something he had always wondered about… perhaps the Ogier youth would know?

" _Tell me, Feren, do you know my Ogier name?_ "

" _But of course;_ " and young Feren uttered a long series of fluid vowels and deep fricatives in the Ogier speech.

" _Yes, that's it. At least, I think it is. But what does it_ mean?"

" _You don't know?"_

" _Would I be asking if I did? Whenever I tried to find out from the Alantin te Avende soldiers, they would just grin and shake their shaggy heads! They wouldn't tell me…_ "

" _Oh._ " Feren considered a moment; " _well, it is a little difficult to translate, but the rough meaning would be; 'He Who Guards the Grain of the Aes Sedai from the Rodents of the Shadow by Swiftly and Skilfully Seizing Upon Them._ '"

" _What?_ " said N'aethan.

Feren spread his large hands apologetically, shrugged his massive shoulders. " _I suppose that the abbreviated_ _version would be something like… 'Rat-Catcher...?_ "

" _Rat-Catcher?_ " N'aethan hissed, " _Tsag! I slay several Dreadlords, two Companions and a Gholam – and all the Ogier can think of to call me is… is… Rat-Catcher?!"_ He took a deep breath, spoke more quietly; " _is that supposed to be some kind of a bad joke?_ "

" _No…_ "

" _Well, it certainly sounds like one to me…_ "

" _But N'aethan… honoured Lightborn… the catching of rats is an important and worthy task! It preserves the food stocks and ensures that the spies of the Shadow do not-_ "

Feren fell silent as N'aethan raised a warning finger to his lips. He sniffed, then feeling a sense of what Father always called ' _déjà vu_ ' shouted in the Low, Vulgar speech; "I know you're there! You can come out now, Anchovy!"

After a moment, Mitsu emerged from the bushes. As usual, she was scowling, the heavy curved blade held loosely in her hands. She looked tired, as though she had travelled far.

"What do you here?" N'aethan demanded in the Vulgar, "I told you to go back to the beach!"

Mitsu ignored him and bowed to Feren. "Honour to the Gardeners," she murmured.

N'aethan stared. It was the first time he had seen Mitsu be even vaguely respectful to anyone. "Isn't he an Oathbreaker too?" he asked sarcastically.

"Of course not!" Mitsu snapped, "he is _Ogier!_ "

Feren blinked his large eyes in confusion, but politely bowed back, revealing that he understood the Low speech by replying in that language; "I thank you. Honour to… to whoever you are, too."

"Well?" N'aethan persisted.

"I _did_ go back to the beach, Chami! There had been a fight. The Oathbreakers were all gone. There were dead warriors there, with painted faces and crude weapons. Some had these." She rolled up her left sleeve, showing him a hawk tattoo. "I do not know why, but they did. Oh, and the tracks of the Aiel led west; I saw no reason to follow them so I came back to make my report to you."

N'aethan frowned, troubled. Had something happened to Ellythia Sedai and the others? Something bad? He hoped not. "I would that you had pursued the Shaido Aiel," he muttered, "they might have known what transpired."

"I do not like the Aiel," Mitsu growled. Her scowl redoubled; "and I like you even less, Chami!" She relented a little. "There was sign of boats pulled up on the sand, the Marath'damane and their Warders must have departed by sea, perhaps against their will." She glanced at Feren, who was gaping at them both, trying to follow what was going on. "You are not as the Ogier of the Deathwatch Guard," she commented, "there is something different about you…"

"He is running away from home in order to avoid the attentions of a beautiful maiden!" N'aethan shouted in exasperation, "therefore he is almost as big an idiot as you are, Anchovy!" He stalked away, not particularly caring if they followed. They did. He could hear the Seanchan assassin and the Ogier youth walking along behind him, speaking quietly to each other. He strained his ears but could not make out what they were saying…

The _Collam Aman_ loomed closer.

"Where are we going, Chami?"

N'aethan ignored Mitsu. Really, he should turn around and head back to the beach, try and find out what had happened to-

"Where are we _going,_ Chami?" Mitsu's voice was patient, persistent, she would keep repeating it until he answered, it seemed to say.

N'aethan sighed. His voice was a low growl; "if you must know, we are going back to where it all _began_."


	4. Chapter 3 : The Dragon College

**Gleeman Bob writes :** _Chapter 3 is kind of a N'aethan-heavy chapter, with some fairly lengthy flashbacks, but I wanted to reveal certain things about his childhood since he has gone back to the place of his birth, which sparks all sorts of memories. the next chapter will be almost entirely made up of flashbacks, exploring Gen's unhealthy obsession with cheese! no, not really..._

 _the next bit is for the attention of Nynaeve's sister. if you are not Nynaeve's sister, don't read it! write me a nice review instead! or go and put the kettle on..._

 _Nynaeve's sister - thanks for the review, it was nice to hear from you again. I am writing to you like this because you have your Private Messaging turned off. it is rare that I get constructive criticism so I wanted to answer it... but firstly, I can reveal that there WILL be a Mad Max type vehicular chase in blinged-up jo-cars at the end of the story! ah, if only! and I hope you are a Fury Road / Tom Hardy fan and not an aficionado of the Mel 'I hate Jews and pommies' Gibson films. personally, I think he belongs in the Land of the Madmen, as he is clearly completely insane! but with regards to your criticism, I have to say that the Hawx are NOT descendants of the armies of Seanchan, but definitely hail from the survivors of the ill-fated Shara expedition. I think that Artur Hawkwing's court would have been very formal, with references to nobles as 'the Blood' and absolute loyalty unto death demanded from his adherents. Chantel may be a spoilt child but she's no fool, and enjoys the unique position of being the only female member of the Blood left alive at the present time... since their first ruler was a High Princess - the Hawkwing's daughter - all subsequent rulers have been female, like in Andor, and have used that title rather than 'Queen.' but you are right that there is definitely a power behind the throne... but who? Kor? Severina? Rags, even?! and finally, the parts of Australia where the Hawx island and the Collam Aman are located, are the REALLY HOT PARTS! where everyone has lizardish wrinkly skin and poisonous spiders lurk beneath toilet seats! but no, it is actually the Northern Territory and parts of Queensland; the city of Larcheen corresponds to modern-day Darwin (where the foolish Gleeman was born in the Light!) and I believe that the Isle of the Spire where the Hawx live is currently called 'Magnetic Island.' I could tell you where the Collam Aman is hidden... but then I'd have to kill you! of course, the weather has changed significantly in the intervening aeons so now forests grow where there was once just bush. and Australia has become fused with Antarctica during the Breaking of the World, so there may well be penguins in my tale, as well as kangaroos!_

 _Walk in the Light everyone!_

* * *

 _Ah, the Collam Aman, where I carried out my greatest work, and suffered my greatest disappointments. But hold – did I say my greatest work? Well, that is not exactly true. There was a final project on which I laboured long, of whose results I am the proudest. That was at the Collam Doon, naturally, the lesser place of study to which I was exiled by the accursed, interfering Hall of Servants. Yes, definitely my finest achievement... I would happily tell you all about it, but of course, then I should have to kill you._

Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai

Interviewed by Kukas Luie, Correspondent; Hall of Public Record, Paaran Disen

* * *

 _Chaime Kufer, otherwise known as 'the Defector,' he who had come back from under the Shadow, entered the nursery-laboratory through the circular aperture as the heartstone portal rolled open, the pair of Warmen guards stepping aside with military precision to let him pass. His chief Da'shain, Ledrin, paced just behind him, the tall Aiel looming over the slight Aes Sedai as he always did._

 _There were three people waiting in the nursery, two Da'shain Aiel nurses, their mouths and noses covered by medical green surgical masks, wearing loose cadin'sor of the same hue, and Jojin, clad in the grey robes of an Apprentice. The small chamber contained three cribs set in a line against the wall and a large cage in the corner. The cage was occupied by one of the big wildcats of the Southern Continent; a female, white furred and sharp of claw. She snarled briefly at the sight of Chaime, blue eyes glaring, then subsided, curling up on the floor of the cage, long tail arranged around paws._

 _Chaime ignored the surrogate, addressed the Da'shain'mai. "You may leave us." The Aielwomen bowed gracefully to the Master and left the nursery-laboratory through the open portal, which rolled shut behind them, sealing with a loud thud. Chaime did not fail to notice that one of the nurses flashed a meaningful glance at Ledrin as she walked past him. He eyed the tall Da'shain with dark, tilted eyes that had seen nearly six centuries pass._

 _"I hear that you stepped on Corai's wreath, Ledrin," Chaime commented._

 _Ledrin smiled gently. "I did not step upon it, Master. That would have been rude. I merely did not pick it up."_

 _"Much the same thing. She did not look pleased with you." Chaime sighed. "You should take another wife, Ledrin. It would be good for you. Good for Jarn, also."_

 _Ledrin shook his head, his long tail of hair sweeping against his broad back. "I will not marry again. I am too old for that."_

 _"Have it your own way, then. I shall not interfere in your domestic arrangements."_

 _Chaime tried not to think of the fate of Ledrin's wife. He had managed to save Linora when he was captured by Aginor's minions, but she could not come with him when he fled from under the Shadow, it would have been impossible to disguise the tall, golden-haired Aielwoman from the enemy. So, after wishing him well and giving him a message for Ledrin, Linora had opened her veins. She had been the bravest Da'shain he ever knew, and that was saying something…_

 _Chaime turned to Jojin, who was waiting patiently, watching them with dark eyes. He was the best of the Apprentices; he had been a Warman Officer cadet until the age of fifteen, when he began to manifest and touch the True Source. Some of this still showed in his demeanour and he always kept his hair cropped short in the military style._

" _Make your report, Jojin," Chaime requested._

 _Jojin bowed smoothly. "As you know, Master, there were seven in the original litter, but only three have survived thus far, all male specimens." He indicated the row of cribs. "One is extremely aggressive…"_

" _Yes, I hear poor Medric lost a finger."_

" _A Restorer re-grew it for him. We have had to sedate that one. Another shows signs of persistent catatonia. But the third seems docile enough, aware of its surroundings, responsive to stimuli, receptive to-"_

" _Let me see him," interrupted Chaime, eagerly._

 _Jojin led the Master of the Collam Aman over to the crib at the end of the row. Chaime gazed down at the small occupant with satisfaction. Bipedal, yet covered in fine white fur, small black claws on the hands and feet, pointed, tufted ears… the odd-looking baby rolled over and made a mewling sound. Cobalt blue eyes stared up at Chaime, unblinking._

" _Hello there, Thirdborn," whispered Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai. "One day, you shall fight for the Light. You will make us all proud, Blood of the Dragon."_

* * *

 **Chapter Three * The Dragon College**

" _The seals have weakened further, I am convinced of it_ …" N'aethan muttered to himself in the Old Tongue. The Dark One was breaking free of his prison. He did not know how he knew such things, he just did. " _The Last Battle is coming._ "

"Stop talking to yourself, Chami," Mitsu chided, "Madmen do that."

"They certainly do," agreed Feren.

The bulk of the _Collam Aman_ loomed above them, more than massive and seemingly impenetrable; a distended dome shape covered in over three thousand years worth of twisting vines, moss and lichen. N'aethan gazed up at it with satisfaction, tempered by a touch of trepidation. He had always thought that from the outside, the Dragon College looked a bit like a sho-wing hangar, though several magnitudes larger. He frowned, recalling the voyage down here with Kiam Sedai in the ancient sho-wing, long ago. That had been an unpleasant experience, he had hated flying even before the fateful journey, he would rather face another Gholam than repeat it…

"This is wonderful!" enthused Feren in his deep voice, "I have never seen anything quite like it!" He turned to N'aethan. "Built by humans in the Age of Legends, you say?" He sighed. "I have always wished to build things, not just to grow them," he added, mournfully.

"Gardeners do not build," Mitsu scoffed.

"Maybe not in Seanchan, but they do now in the Westlands, seemingly…" N'aethan spoke without looking at either of them, his strange eyes fixed on the place of his birth. "All things change," he muttered, more to himself than to them. All things – except for the _Collam Aman_.

"So how do we get inside, Chami?" Mitsu enquired, "I see no doors."

N'aethan looked at his companions. "The doors were all sealed, by order of the Big Hall. Can you climb?"

"Of course," replied Mitsu, scornfully.

"I have climbed trees, even the Great Trees," Feren responded. He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Those vines look strong enough to support me."

"Leave the bag of books behind, just in case. You won't need them."

Feren grumbled a little about this. His two unwanted companions following – and he had thought of and discarded several ways to get rid of them! – N'aethan began to pace around the lengthy perimeter of the _Collam_ , looking up all the while. Looking for the right place. He was on the verge of giving up, of climbing the entire height of the edifice and going in through one of the skylights, when he finally saw it. The gallery. Only his eyes could have made it out, hidden behind a mass of flowering vines and ivy, but it was there.

"We only have to go halfway up," he told the others, before directing his attention solely to Feren. "Lose the library, Runaway! It will only weigh you down."

Muttering no-doubt uncomplimentary things in his own incomprehensible tongue, Feren carefully secreted his bulky knapsack beneath a holly bush. His ears drooped. "Do you think my books will be safe there?" he wondered.

"Not unless the local wildlife have taken up reading…" N'aethan trailed-off, realising something. He would have noticed sooner, but had been preoccupied. There seemingly _was_ no local wildlife, by the sound of it. No birdsong, no animal calls, no tracks or trails – the forest around the Dragon College was eerily deserted. He shivered slightly, shaking off a sense of foreboding. "Come on," N'aethan urged, gripping a thick vine and beginning to climb.

Feren secured his sung-wood club to his back with a leather strap and followed. Mitsu simply retained a grip on her Heron-mark blade and climbed one-handed. It did not seem to hamper her. N'aethan whistled softly between his teeth as he ascended the vines, as simple as a staircase to him. The forest fell away beneath them, a green swathe, the vast edifice looming above. The noon sun was overhead by the time they reached the gallery. N'aethan drew his sword and hacked a way in through the vines and ivy. One by one they crawled through, over a stone lip to stand on cuendillar tiles in a dark, wide hallway. They were _inside_ the Dragon College!

It was rather dusty, with a neglected feel, but that was hardly surprising. The _Collam_ had been sealed and closed for all time in the sixth year of the War, and had presumably lain undisturbed ever since. Except that Father had come here to leave his message, and something else. N'aethan suspected that he knew what… and wished to confirm those suspicions. The constant nagging worry about Ellythia Sedai and the others did not help his objectivity, however. But he had a plan for finding her, which involved a bed. With this in mind, N'aethan led the way unerringly through the dark hallways, until they reached an ornate sung-wood door.

Feren ran his thick fingers over the ancient portal with interest. "This is very fine work," he mumbled, "I would that I could sing wood so well as this…"

"Well, you sang a mighty fine club to hit me over the head with," muttered N'aethan, a little uncharitably, giving the door a push. It did not budge. He pushed harder. Still nothing. He shoved, with all his strength. A cracking sound; the door split in two and the separate halves fell to the tiles with a crash. Feren groaned with regret. "Sorry," N'aethan muttered, "but nothing lasts forever. Mayhap we can glue it back together? I think I know where there is some glue…"

"What is this place, Chami?" Mitsu asked, suspiciously.

"My old living quarters, mine and Father's, and Middle Brother's too, before he went off to the War. Elder Brother lived here as well, but I never met him," he added, regretfully.

Mitsu raised her thin eyebrows. "So you and the other Chami dwelt here?"

"It seems that the plural of Chami is 'Chami.' How interesting. But they _weren't_ Chami – and neither am I! What is a bloody Chami, anyway?"

"It is a kind of monster," answered Mitsu, mysteriously.

"Ah, well, you may have something there…" N'aethan stepped into his old living quarters, past the wrecked door that had once opened for the Dragon himself, Feren and Mitsu reluctantly following. He inhaled deeply; the air was musty, but there were hints of familiar scents that stirred profound memories. His eyes searched the gloomy interior, looking for some sign of Father's message. There were only so many places that the ancient Aes Sedai would have left it, and this was one of them.

The living quarters were spacious, luxurious, as befitted the Master of the _Collam Aman_ ; dusty tapestries yet hung from the walls, as did exquisite works of art, fine sung-wood furniture was scattered about, which Feren examined with interest. N'aethan went into his old room, Mitsu following. It was much as he remembered it; the bed and cupboard, both of sung-wood, the Briar Patch board still set out on the rug, the big poster of the Dragon tacked to the wall, curling at the edges…

"Who is that?" Mitsu asked, pointing at the colourful, if dusty, image of the handsome man in the armour and cloak, the ancient symbol of the Aes Sedai emblazoned on the breastplate.

"Lews Therin Telamon, he is," N'aethan answered. He remembered that the Dragon had been a little embarrassed by the poster – not to mention the overt hero-worship – when he had visited.

"The Kinslayer," Mitsu muttered, disapprovingly.

"Don't call him that! It wasn't his fault, what happened."

"He was one of those who broke the World – were he alive today, he would be put to death before he could cause such chaos!"

"He _is_ alive today! He has been reborn, remember?"

"I _do_ remember. I was at… at Falme." Mitsu said the word with reluctance.

"So would you put the Dragon to death before _Tarmon Gai'don_ and doom us all?" N'aethan demanded.

"Of course not, Chami! Not before the Last Battle – _after!_ But first, the Dragon Reborn will kneel before the Crystal Throne. It has been foretold." Mitsu's voice held absolute conviction.

N'aethan eyed her sardonically. "What if it is your precious Empress who has to kneel before _him?_ " he asked.

"That is blasphemy, Chami! To suggest that the Empress – may she live forever – would abase herself before a pitiful Madman! Had I not sworn an oath, I would kill you where you stand for saying so terrible a thing! _You_ are the one who deserves to be _spanked!_ "

"Um…" Feren stood in the doorway, looking embarrassed. "Am I interrupting something?"

" _No!_ " they both shouted, glaring at each other.

N'aethan sighed. "Come on," he muttered, "there is nothing to see here…" he glanced at the bed, "…though I think that I shall return later, spend the night in my old room." He nodded to Feren. "You can have Elder Brother's bed, it should be big enough for you…" he scowled at Mitsu; "and you can sleep on the bloody floor, for all I care!"

Mitsu shrugged. "I will not sleep. I shall stand watch," she stated flatly.

"Don't be silly, you've travelled far, you're clearly exhausted!"

"A Bloodknife is not as ordinary folk. I can go many nights without rest."

"Well, have it your own way." N'aethan left the living quarters, Feren and Mitsu trailing after him.

"Where do we go to now, Chami?" the Seanchan assassin enquired.

"Downstairs. Down to the lowest levels, where the monsters live…" N'aethan laughed spookily. Feren moaned softly. N'aethan grinned. It had been long since he had lived here, even not counting the time spent in the Stasis Box, but he remembered the route through the hallways in which he had played as a boy as if it were only yesterday. One thing had changed. There were no Apprentices, no Da'shain, no Warmen – the halls were silent and empty, which they had never been before, excepting at night-time. It felt good to be back – how dull the tiny _Collam Doon_ had seemed compared with this vast playground! It had been a relief to go off to the War, and get away from that boring place.

Finally, N'aethan stopped at a particular tapestry. Like all the tapestries, it had a Keeping woven on it, else would have crumbled away to nothing long since. Curiously, Mitsu brushed some of the dust from it. Feren sneezed, an Ogier-sized sneeze that echoed in the deserted hallway. The tapestry depicted a beautiful, gleaming city of glassy spires and crystalline towers, above which an immense white sphere was in the process of shattering and breaking apart, bursts of black fire erupting from its cracked surface.

"What is this, Chami?" Mitsu asked.

"It depicts the destruction of the _Sharom_ , over the city of V'saine," N'aethan answered, "the catastrophe which let loose the Dark One's touch on the world. Lanfear's doing, only she wasn't called that then…" Feren moaned again. N'aethan swept the rather morbid tapestry aside, revealing an archway in the stone wall. It was gloomy enough in the hallway, but almost pitch-black beyond. "You, with the big eyes," he addressed Feren, rather rudely since the moaning was getting on his nerves, "can you see in the dark with those things?"

Feren shook his head. "They are not _that_ big," he mumbled, under his breath.

Mitsu shook her head too. "Only you can see in the dark, Chami." She thought about it. "The better to hunt your victims," she added, accusingly.

" _You're_ the assassin, not me! How many victims have _you_ had?"

Mitsu scowled, and declined to answer.

N'aethan dug in one of his belt pouches and pulled out the miniature _sar_ -light he kept there. It had always seemed a waste of time to carry the thing, since he didn't need it, but he did anyway, in case he had to light the way for others. Which he now did…

Beyond the arch, a spiral staircase descended into the darkness. N'aethan handed the glowing _sar_ -light wordlessly to Feren, then started down the steps. Feren followed, holding up the small crystalline orb, pale light flickering off the stone walls, and Mitsu brought up the rear, unsheathing her blade. N'aethan smiled briefly; she would not need it, everything dangerous that had lived down here had been dead for thousands of years. They did not need to know that, though…

The spiral steps went down for a long way, ending in another arch leading out into a wide, circular chamber, lined all around with heavy iron doors. A deep well lay in the centre. N'aethan pointed at it. "They kept the most dangerous _chumira_ down there," he lied. "It was a vicious monster called 'The Ripper!'" Mitsu looked at him sceptically. A deep moan from Feren. "Would you _please_ stop doing that?!" N'aethan snapped, exasperated.

"Sorry, honoured Lightborn!"

"I thought you wanted an adventure?" N'aethan pointed-out.

"I thought that I did… but perhaps I should just go back to Stedding Dashai and get married?" Feren considered. "That does not seem so bad an idea now…"

Mitsu blinked, eyeing Feren uncertainly.

N'aethan felt guilty, as he had in the Cenotaph when he had let Ellythia Sedai think that Father's glimmer-message was a ghost. "Relax, good Ogier; I was just joking about the monster. The only thing they kept down there was _water_."

Feren looked relieved.

Mitsu snorted. "I _knew_ you were lying, Chami." But she looked slightly relieved also.

N'aethan led the way to one of the doors in the circular wall. He knew exactly which one… some things, you never forget. It was unlocked and swung slowly open with a squeal of rusty hinges when he pulled. He stood in the doorway a moment. Remembering.

 _The small boy sat on the bench in his cage, feet dangling above the stone floor. There were sharp black claws on those feet, on his hands also, folded neatly in his lap, and he had long white hair and strange, cobalt eyes. He wore a simple dark vest and pair of shorts. He didn't have a name, but thought of himself as 'Three' since he was in the third cage along. This seemed a good enough title to accord himself, for the time being…_

 _The boy in the cage next to his never said anything, never made a sound, just sat on the floor in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, slowly rocking back and forth. Three had long since given up trying to make friends with him. And as for the boy in the far cage… well, there was definitely something_ wrong _with him. Whenever someone walked past, he would snarl and launch himself at the bars, trying to scratch them with his claws. He seemed more like an animal than a person. Three had no interest in making friends with_ him.

 _Both of the other boys looked alike – in fact, he suspected that they looked like_ him _, but since he lacked a mirror in his cage, could not be sure. He supposed that they must be his brothers, but he did not think of them as such. And where, then, was his mother? Where was his father?_

 _The big door at the end of the room swung open and someone came in. It was not one of the Warmen, nor the tall Da'shain who periodically fed them… it was not anyone he had seen or heard before, but someone new. A stooped old man in black robes, with honey-coloured skin. His skull was hairless, his eyes dark and almond-shaped, and small white tufts grew from beneath his nose, projecting to either side of his thin-lipped mouth. A blunt-looking dagger hung about his neck on a cord. He shut the door behind him and started down the line of cages._

 _The first boy growled and attacked the bars, reaching through, claws extended, trying to slash the old man. He paused, eyeing the boy with profound disapproval. "Stop that!" he snapped._

 _Surprisingly, the boy obeyed, subsiding to crouch on the floor, making a mewling sound. The old man continued his progress. He glanced regretfully at the next boy, rocking back and forth, and shook his head. Then, he arrived opposite Three's cage and stood there, examining him with a dark, perceptive gaze. Three examined him back. He had never seen anyone quite like the old man._

" _Who you?" Three asked._

 _The old man raised his white eyebrows in surprise. "You can speak!" he exclaimed._

" _Yes. I listen. I learn."_

" _Listening is the best way of learning… well, since you ask, I am Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai."_

 _At which Three scrambled down from the bench and performed a clumsy bow. "Honour to serve, Aes Sedai," he murmured, doing as he had seen the Da'shain do._

 _The old man – Chaime Kufer – laughed softly. Then, he bowed back. "Honour to_ be _served, Lightborn."_

 _Three's brow furrowed. A new word, that he had not heard before. "What Ligh'born?" he asked._

"Lightborn." _Chaime Kufer pointed to him. "It is you. It is what you are. And your name is 'Tro.'"_

" _Tro," repeated Three, "what mean?"_

" _It means 'three' in the Root Speech."_

 _Three made a mewling sound. It took Chaime a moment to realise that he was laughing. "Already called that! 'Tro.' Hmm. It will do."_

 _Chaime Kufer approached the bars, taking a key from the pocket of his robe. He unlocked the cage door, swinging it open. "Come, Tro. Let us leave this place. Time for a history lesson."_

" _What his story?" Tro asked, following Chaime down toward the room's exit, his bare feet silent on the stone floor._

"History. _It is what we should learn from, but never do."_

 _Tro glanced at the other boys as he went past their cages. The boy next to him had momentarily ceased rocking back and forth, had raised his head, cobalt eyes staring at them. The boy at the end was still crouching, claws unsheathed, watching them with his customary hostility, his pupils narrowed into slits._

" _Goodbye," Tro whispered. He did not think he would see them again…_

The line of cages was still there, the doors hanging open. The room was empty, deserted. And N'aethan had a fairly good idea what had happened to the two other boys. Father had never tolerated failure in his experiments…

"What is this place?" Feren wanted to know. Mitsu just gazed suspiciously with her dark, tilted eyes, blade still drawn.

"It is where I learned to speak, and to serve," N'aethan answered, cryptically. Well, there was no sign of a message, not that he had particularly thought there would have been, but he had wanted to come here anyway… it was where he had first met Father. That made it important; but also, a dead-end. There remained one likely location. "Come on," N'aethan said, "we are wasting our time down here."

"Where do we go now?" Mitsu asked. "Chami," she added.

"Why, to the Hall of Servants of the _Collam Aman_ , of course. Where else?"

* * *

It was hot in the wooden stockade, the noon-day sun directly overhead, and the Warders had been denied water in punishment for their latest escape attempt. This meant that their odd cellmate also went without, but he did not seem to mind. He was a cheerful sort.

Aebel was keeping watch whilst Blaek scraped at the sand at the base of the thick wooden logs that made up the walls of their cage. One dark eye pressed to a gap in this wall, Aebel could make-out the beach, several of what he had learned were called 'war-canoes' drawn up on it, as well as various people moving about, most of whom held weapons of one sort or another. He frowned. He had seen one of the hawk-masked guards bearing his sword. Though it was not a rare, Power-wrought blade, he still prized the weapon highly. Shrina had given it to him, on his nineteenth Name-day.

Shrina… where was she? Aebel had not seen her in days. Worse, he could not sense her through the Bond. This worried him a great deal. Behind him, his brother, Blaek, dug industriously at the sand with his hands, though the logs went down deep. Aebel could not do much digging himself, since he had a broken arm, a legacy of their last escape attempt. His left limb was held in a rough sling that their cellmate had made for him, and throbbed painfully.

A low groan came from the other side of the stockade. Aebel turned away from the logs for a moment. Jabal was awake. Aebel felt relief at this; he had feared that his Sea Folk friend might never recover consciousness. Jabal stirred on the straw mattress, groaned again.

"Lay still," Aebel told him. Jabal's face was heavily bruised, he had at least two broken ribs, perhaps internal injuries. Since he had killed one of their number, the guards had gone hardest on him when they were recaptured. But also, they seemed to have no great love for the _Atha'an Miere_.

Sitting beside Jabal, tending to him in a limited capacity, was their cellmate. Though accustomed to the fellow by now, Aebel still found him a strange sight. He was a handsome youth, well-muscled, dark-skinned with wiry, curly brown hair, his eyes almost black. He wore a rough, homespun shirt and britches of the same material, cut-off at the knees. And his face was covered with tattoos! Intricate ember lines and curlicues interspersed with dots were inked over the entirety of his features, giving him an outlandish appearance.

Seeing that Jabal was awake, the odd youth carefully put a damp rag, soaked in what little water remained to them, over his eyes. He spoke, not in the Vulgar, or even the Old Tongue, though he knew a few words of each, but rather in his own language, an exotic, fluid speech. Then, he looked at Aebel with his dark eyes, speaking again at some length. His eyes flicked toward Blaek as he spoke, then back to Aebel.

"What did he say, Jabal?" Aebel enquired, not liking to disturb the wounded _Atha'an Miere_ Gaidin, but wondering if it was important. The youth, who seemed to be called 'Ayyad' rarely spoke, but when he did, it was to the point. Fortunate that one of their number understood him…

At first, Aebel thought that Jabal had not heard him and he was wondering whether to repeat the question, when the Sea Folk Warder answered in a weak voice, barely more than a whisper; "he told me not to move. Then, he told you that your brother is wasting his time trying to dig his way out. He has tried it himself… the logs go down too deep, and the guards will only notice the hole and punish us all."

"Oh." Aebel looked at the tattooed young man curiously, then asked; "how came you to speak the language of Shara, Jabal?"

"I used to trade with them. I wasn't always a Warder. And they don't call it Shara, they call it 'Co'dansin.'"

The youth nodded. "Co'dansin, yes," he agreed, then pulled a disgusted face, his tattoos twisting. "Co'dansin _bad_."

Aebel's dark eyes searched Ayyad's decorated features for signs of subterfuge, but detected none. At least, he assumed the youth was called that; when first he awoke in the stockade, his cellmate had thumped his chest and said 'Ayyad!' a couple of times, so that was presumably his name. Recalling his duty, Aebel turned back to the gap in the logs, in time to notice that several guards were on their way toward the stockade…

"Hide the hole!" Aebel hissed to his brother.

Blaek scowled. "How does one hide a hole?" he demanded.

"I know not… think of something!"

Blaek seemed at a loss, but then Ayyad threw him a blanket, making a spreading motion with his hands. Blaek swiftly stretched the blanket over the hole in the sand he had dug, then lay down in front of it. Aebel turned away from the log wall and went to sit next to Jabal. He examined him with concern; his _Atha'an Miere_ friend did not look well…

With a squeal, the rough wooden door of the stockade was pulled open on its iron hinges and a familiar figure entered, flanked by two armed guards. They had to duck to get under the doorway, then crouch, since the roof was not high enough to allow anyone to stand. Except for Lord Wakime, Aebel thought snidely.

The leader of those who had attacked them on the beach surveyed the prisoners, expressionless. He wore neither war-paint nor buckskins on this occasion, but a purple robe, the ivory-hilted Power-wrought Sea Folk blade tucked through the belt.

Jabal removed the damp rag from his eyes and raised his head wearily, noting that their enemy had appropriated his weapon. "Thief," he growled, "when I take my sword back from you, I shall gut you with it, like a codfish!"

The leader, whose name was apparently 'Kor,' scowled. "I am no thief, I am of the Blood. Your sword, which is now _my_ sword, is a rightful spoil of war. Were you not already marked for death, I would kill you for your insult!"

"Kill me, then," Jabal muttered, "it is better than having to listen to your lies."

"Where are our Aes Sedai?" Aebel and Blaek demanded, at the same time. Kor ignored them.

Ayyad uttered a sting of liquid syllables, and Jabal translated without being asked to; "he wants to know the location of someone named 'Dara.'" Ayyad muttered something else, with a note of menace to it. "He also says that were he not shielded from the Holy Power, he would turn you around inside your own skin!"

Aebel eyed Ayyad cautiously. This was the first indication he had that the young man could channel… a Madman, in their midst!

Kor did not seem impressed by the threat, nor inclined to tell them the whereabouts of their womenfolk. "I came here to ask questions, not to answer them," he hissed, then; "apart from the Aiel savages you brought with you, how many more of you are there? Have the Sea Folk returned? How many came in the ship that lies in the Ghost Forest, beside the Everstone?"

"Hundreds," answered Jabal weakly, "we will burn your castle to the ground and stake you out on the sand at low tide!"

Kor ignored him and focused on Aebel and Blaek. "You, who look so alike – answer me or one of you will mourn his brother's death!"

The Twins eyed each other wordlessly. Then they smiled coldly at Kor and said, in unison; "kill us both or not at all!"

Kor sighed, frustrated, eyeing the three Warders with grudging respect. "You are all brave men," he conceded. Then, he scowled. "I shall return tomorrow, at dusk. If you do not answer my questions then, you will be fed to the sharks!" Kor left the stockade, the guards following, backing out warily, blades bared. Another wordless glance between Aebel and Blaek. If they were going to rush them, now was the right time, while the door was open. But they had already tried that once, and all it had gained them was bruises and a broken arm. Worse, in Jabal's case…

Ayyad spoke softly as the door was closed and bolted.

"What did he say this time, Jabal?" Blaek asked.

The young Sharan held something up. Three long straws, which he had prized from one of the sleeping-mats.

Jabal coughed, then whispered; "he says that he has a plan."

* * *

Again, N'aethan, Feren and Mitsu made their way along numerous hallways and galleries, of which the _Collam Aman_ had a great many, down ramps and up staircases. N'aethan led the way unerringly.

"It is like a termite's nest," Mitsu complained.

"I still find it hard to believe that humans built this place," commented Feren. His deep voice took on a note of disbelief; "humans live in mud huts and… and _caves!_ Not places such as this…"

N'aethan glanced over his shoulder and grinned, pointy teeth flashing in the gloom. "The humans of the Age of Legends lived in abodes such as you would not believe, Runaway!"

Feren's ears drooped sadly. "How far they have fallen," he muttered, gloomily.

N'aethan sighed. He was starting to think that young Feren had a strongly pessimistic streak to his nature. Or perhaps all the Treebrothers of this insane land were like that? Understandable, since they had not had an easy time of it, by the looks of things…

"You should see the magnificent cities of Seanchan, Gardener," drawled Mitsu, "Sohima, Kirendad, the great port of Takisrom where I was born, our glorious capital, Seandar… they would impress you."

"I suppose that they might," Feren allowed, "but I should rather just return to Stedding Dashai and…" he trailed off, and blushed, ears twitching.

"…and get married!" N'aethan prompted, completing the sentence. He glanced at Mitsu. "Are you married, Anchovy?"

Mitsu smiled coldly. "Yes." She held up the sword, still unsheathed. "I am married to _this!_ " She shrugged. "And I am married to death. I am a Bloodknife, Chami."

"You are an assassin, Anchovy." N'aethan glanced curiously at Feren. "What I don't understand is; you have lived within spitting distance of the Dragon College all your life… have you never wondered what it _was?_ "

"I thought it was a _hill!_ " Feren responded.

N'aethan laughed his mewling laugh. " _Ogier!_ " was all he could manage to say.

In silence they walked further through the depths of the _Collam Aman._ Then, N'aethan paused, recognising a particular tapestry. It depicted the destruction of Jalanda in all its gory detail. " _I wonder if it is still there?_ " he muttered, in the High.

" _If what is still there, honoured Lightborn?_ " Feren asked, in the same language.

Mitsu, who did not speak the Old Tongue, eyed them both with her customary suspicion.

N'aethan did not answer Feren. "Wait here," he muttered, in the Vulgar, then swept the tapestry aside and slipped through the archway that lay beyond. He found himself in a round chamber, almost filled with tall, crystalline tubes, standing on end. When last he had seen them, they had been glowing with eldritch power, exuding an aura of implacable knowledge. Now they stood, still and lifeless. He supposed that only an Aes Sedai could activate them, but there were probably none alive today who knew how. Pulling at his coat and shirt, N'aethan glanced down at the shimmering blue Lightmark on his broad chest, emblazoned into the skin over his heart. Remembering…

 _The old man and the young boy paced through the deserted hallways of the Collam Aman. Tro glanced around curiously._

 _"Where everyone?" he enquired._

 _"Asleep," answered Chaime Kufer. "I thought it best to fetch you at night. There are eyes here that it would be best did not see you."_

 _"Oh." Tro pointed a claw at the horn-hilted, blunt dagger that hung around Chaime's neck on a silken cord. "What that?"_

 _"A ter'angreal. A very special ter'angreal, rare beyond belief, gifted to me by the Eelfinn. It protects me from the attentions of the Great Lord of the Dark." Chaime made a tutting sound. "That is to say; the Dark One."_

 _"Ah," said Tro, "you mean Shai'tan!"_

 _Chaime raised an eyebrow. "Where did you hear that name?" he demanded._

 _"Don't know. Have always known…"_

 _"Well, kindly do not use it again. Naming the Dark One brings ill luck to those that do."_

 _"Yes Aes Sedai. I obey. I will not say."_

 _In due course, they arrived at a tapestry depicting a burning city. Monsters rampaged through the streets, corpses littered the pavements. Tro looked at it with interest._

 _"_ War _," he hissed, under his breath._

 _Chaime nodded sadly. "Yes, war. In my youth, the word was entirely unknown, except by the more esoteric of historians. Now, it is all there is."_

 _Tro looked at Chaime with his strange eyes, that glowed a little in the gloom. "I made for war," he stated, softly._

 _Chaime nodded. "That is most perceptive of you, Tro. You were indeed. But first, there is a sort of test to be passed. Come." Chaime held the tapestry aside and they went through the archway that lay beyond. Tall, crystalline tubes awaited them, standing on end. On a small, sung-wood table rested a golden hand, life-size, index-finger extended. Chaime picked it up, holding it by the stump of the wrist._

 _"What that?" Tro wanted to know._

 _"A sa'angreal. One of the most powerful ever made." Chaime raised the sa'angreal, the pointed finger aimed at the tubes, concentrating. To Tro's strange vision, the glow of Power about him flared and intensified for a moment, then the crystal tubes came alive, shining and pulsing with arcane forces. Chaime lowered the sa'angreal, looking weary. "There," he said, "it is done."_

 _"What now?" asked Tro._

 _Chaime indicated a gap in the tubes. "You must go in there, young Lightborn. You will see visions." He hesitated a moment, then added; "you may not come out again. Some do not."_

 _Tro shrugged. Then he bowed, a little less clumsily this time. "Honour to serve, Chaime Sedai," he said, then walked into the glowing crystalline tubes without hesitation._

 _An intense flash of light. Tro blinked. Where was he?_ Who _was he? He stood beneath a tall tree with trefoil leaves, that seemed to exude an aura of peace and harmony. There were more of these trees to the left and right, running down the centre of a long, wide avenue. Something shot by with a loud, humming sound and he jumped, surprised. It was silver, shaped like a distended rain-drop; there were many of the strange vehicles racing back and forth to either side of the trees. And beyond them; pavements thronged with colourfully dressed people of differing aspects, making their way to and fro. Enormous buildings loomed above, each edifice a towering work of art. And above_ them _…_

 _Tro stared. An enormous white sphere hung in the sky, seemingly unsupported. What was it? Something like a giant bird swooped past above it, a pale wing-shape. It was all too much to take in._

 _Tro examined himself instead. He was not a little boy anymore, he seemed to be an adult. He wore a suit of dark, shimmering cloth, with fine lace at the collar and cuffs. He fingered the lace, and noticed that there were no claws on his hands. He wiggled his toes inside his knee-boots. No claws on them either, by the feel of it. Hesitantly, he touched an ear. Round, like a human's, not pointed and tufted. What had happened to him?_

 _Something caught Tro's attention in the crowd on the other side of the avenue. An altercation of some sort… a tall, red-headed Da'shain lay on his back, a bearded man in a long, colour-shifting coat standing over him. A woman, clad in a gown that also seemed to keep changing its garish hues, stood beside him. Tro watched as the man helped the Aiel to his feet, dusting solicitously at his cadin'sor. The two seemed to be apologising profusely to each other while the woman looked on, embarrassed._

 _Then; a huge noise from above, a vast booming sound. Tro stared upwards and gaped in horror. The massive sphere was in the process of shattering, breaking apart, gouts of dark flame bursting from it as it began to fall. And the screaming began. Tro started to run, but he knew it was too late. It had always been too late._

 _An intense flash of light. Tro blinked. Where was he? Who was he? This time he glanced down at himself before taking in his surroundings. Again, no claws. And he wore the cadin'sor – he was Da'shain! Tro touched his distinctive tail of hair wonderingly, then noticed that there were other tall Da'shain Aiel standing with him, reddish and fair hair, blue and green eyes, all male. Except one. A Da'shain'mai, wearing a long skirt and blouse, she had golden hair, was very beautiful. She looked sad. They all did, their mournful gazes fixed on something. Tro followed their line of sight. He wished he had not…_

 _Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, clad in a black robe, lay upon the stony ground, scattered with human skulls. A tall, pale man stood over him. No, not a man. He had no eyes and exuded menace. Long, lank, black hair, serpent-scaled armour, a dark sword gripped in one hand… and his booted foot pressed to Chaime's neck, holding him down. Chaime looked younger than when last Tro had seen him, he had a halo of wispy white hair about his skull. He also looked terrified._

 _An old, old man wearing crimson robes was talking to Chaime. He seemed to embody evil somehow… it lay not so much in the cruel half-smile on his lips or the way that he was clearly enjoying the situation, but in his pale eyes. They held no pity, no mercy. They were the eyes of a man who had seen and done terrible things… and simply did not care._

 _Beyond them waited a score of hulking creatures swathed in spiked armour, gripping crude, barbed weapons. Tro stared. They had the aspect of beasts; wolf muzzles, boar snouts and eagle's beaks, shaggy fur and feathered crests, hooves and paws as often as booted feet… and yet, their eyes were horribly human. Tro strained his ears to hear what was being said..._

 _"But Ishar…" moaned Chaime._

 _"_ Aginor _," snapped the ancient, evil man, "use my former name again and I will have you blinded."_

 _"But Aginor, I cannot…"_

 _"Silence! I will make this perfectly simple for you, my old Apprentice. Agree to serve me and swear your oaths to the Great Lord, or my minions shall eat you alive."_

 _"What… what are those things?"_

 _"Trollocs. I am rather proud of them. And this creature with its boot upon your neck is a Myrddraal, a sort of throwback to the human stock I used in making my Trollocs. I am even more proud of the Myrddraal, though their making was something of an accident, so I claim no credit for it. Enough questions! Choose."_

 _"I… I will serve you, my old Master…" The words seemed to be wrenched from Chaime's soul._

 _"Good. A sensible choice, given the circumstances."_

 _"What of my Da'shain?"_

 _"I have no use for them. Leaf-loving cowards. They can feed the Trollocs. Such hungry monsters, they are!" Aginor laughed cruelly and motioned for the Myrddraal to remove its foot from Chaime's neck._

 _Released, Chaime struggled up to his knees, hands clasped together. "Please! Aginor… the Aiel... do not…"_

 _"Oh, very well. I am in a good mood, so I will let you keep one. Again, you must choose."_

 _"I… I cannot…"_

 _The Da'shain Aiel chose for him. As one, the men all pointed to the woman. Tro found himself pointing also. They all bowed to the Master a final time. Tro bowed too. Then, without hesitation, they walked toward the waiting Trollocs. The beast-faced horrors fingered their weapons and licked their muzzles in anticipation._

 _Tro walked with the others, head held high. He did not feel fear at his horrible fate. He did not feel hatred, for the Beastmen who would kill and eat him, or even for Aginor, who had so casually ordered his doom. But he did feel pride… pride that he had served the Master to the best of his abilities, pride that he had lived the Way of the Leaf to the last. That was enough._

 _An intense flash of light. Tro blinked. Where was he? Who was he? This time he wore crimson robes, like those Aginor wore. Looking around, he saw that he was with a group of similarly clad acolytes. They were all smiling cruelly. He could tell that they had sold their souls to the Shadow. Beyond them was Aginor himself, as well as Chaime Kufer, both wearing the same crimson robes. They were in a large cavern, crammed with sophisticated scientific equipment of all kinds. He recognised none of it._

" _Number forty-two," called out Chaime briskly, "present yourself for experimentation duty." He looked older now, care-worn, his skull completely hairless. In answer to his summons, a Myrddraal stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the cavern. It wore no sword or armour, just a simple black coat, britches and boots. It stood before Aginor, looking on him with loathing, though no eyes to look with._

" _Forty-two, in this next experiment we are going to test your resistance to fire," Aginor stated crisply. "Do you understand?"_

" _Yes, Chosen-one," the Myrddraal answered, in a voice like the sloughing of dead snakeskin._

" _You will most probably not survive the test," Aginor continued, sounding bored, "none of the others have."_

 _The Myrddraal did not trouble to reply._

" _Get in the thermobaric chamber," ordered Chaime, indicating a spherical piece of equipment with a clear door standing open. The Myrddraal complied, clambering inside. The door cycled shut. "Initiating," muttered Chaime, sounding satisfied. Within seconds, the Myrddraal was burning busily. It did not scream, made no sound at all._

 _Aginor watched, unmoved. "Increase temperature."_ _Chaime did so. Tro noted that there was a look of profound pleasure on his face as he watched the Myrddraal die._

 _An intense flash of light. Tro blinked. Where was he? Who was he? Looking down, he saw that he was clad in dark, glistening armour. There was a helmet on his head, complete with curving mandibles that protected his face, and a dark visor. In his gloved hands he bore a heavy length of metal, a tubular weapon. A curved, Power-wrought sword was sheathed at his belt. Similarly clad and armed men marched to either side of him, dozens of them. They were advancing up a hill. To his left, Tro could see a column of armoured Ogier, armed with large axes and war-hammers. To his right, more armoured humans, but their armour was white and gold, their helmets shaped like the head of some snarling beast, their gloves and boots tipped with golden claws._

 _At the top of the hill waited the enemy, a horde of Trollocs, interspersed with Myrddraal. Tro felt no fear at facing them, just eagerness to join battle. And between the forces of the Shadow and them…Tro stared. A giant! Taller even than the tallest Ogier, an enormous man clad in white ceramic armour, the snowy pelt of some great beast thrown over his massive shoulders. In his hands he bore a great axe with four silver blades. He closed on the foe with long strides, the soldiers of the Light running to keep up. He turned. He had a strong, heavy-jawed face, framed by long white hair, his eyes shining with an unearthly glow. A golden circle was emblazoned on his breast-plate. He raised the axe._

" _For the Light!" the giant roared, and the soldiers cheered, scrambling up the hill in his wake. Turning back to the enemy, the gigantic man strode toward them, beginning to whirl the axe over his head. Fluted holes in the blades made an eerie, howling sound. He tore into the ranks of Myrddraal and Trollocs like some unstoppable force of nature, his axe rising and falling, sweeping from side to side, cleaving great swathes of death in the ranks of the Shadow. As he killed, his booming laughter seemed to shake the sky. Tro knew instinctively that he was looking at a Hero of the Light._

 _An intense flash. Blink. Where? Who? Now he was in a vast hall, countless elstone columns supporting a marble roof so high as to be nearly lost to sight. Cuendillar tiles bearing the circular symbol of the Aes Sedai lay beneath his booted feet. He wore garments a little like the cadin'sor, except that they were a deep green in hue, decorated with numerous golden trefoil leaves. A heavy cloak of red velvet hung from his shoulders. Looking around him, Tro saw near a hundred men waiting, all dressed in their best finery. He somehow knew that they were all powerful Aes Sedai. The enormous chamber seemed to hum with energy at their combined presence, and he was one of them, and one with them._

 _Above them all, up on a dais, seated on a crystalline throne, was a tall, handsome man, though careworn, also Aes Sedai. He had brown hair, streaked in places with white, falling to his broad shoulders, and sad eyes. He wore a red coat and dark trews, tucked into finely-worked golden knee-boots. A heavy, fur-trimmed cloak framed him. On its breast was a velvet badge; a stylised image of a fierce, lion-maned creature with five golden claws on each foot, curled into a circle, biting its own tail. The man exuded power and authority, wisdom also, but tempered by kindness. Tro instinctively knew that he was looking at Lews Therin Telamon. The Dragon. At which, the First Among the Servants spoke, his voice mellifluous, echoing in the great hall._

" _Step forward, Culan Cuhan." He smiled. "Light's Wrath."_

 _A huge Aes Sedai, clad in a suit of golden shattercloth, strode forward from the throng. He mounted the steps swiftly, went down on one knee before the throne, and the Dragon who sat upon it. Lews Therin Telamon passed him something and they exchanged a few quiet words, before Culan Cuhan rose, bowed, and descended the steps, rejoining the others. He was grinning savagely._

" _Come forth, Veic Shuul Savoran, Flagservant."_

 _A tall, cadaverous Aes Sedai frowned and responded to the summons. He wore dark, velvet robes, silver boots and a sour expression. In one hand he bore a long flag-pole. A pale, rolled-up banner was tucked beneath his arm. He knelt before the Dragon and again, was presented with something, again the exchange of quiet words. Tro strained his ears, but could not make out what was being said._

" _Present yourself, Goaeur Rantoel!"_

 _A strange-looking Aes Sedai obeyed the command. He had a red face, long fair hair, a seemingly permanent smile. He wore purple silks and as he stumped forward, Tro noted that his left leg ended at the knee in some kind of bizarre prosthesis, shaped like the Dragon's foot on the badge, complete with five golden claws. The odd fellow didn't seem to have any trouble walking with it, he mounted the steps rapidly enough and went down on his good knee. Again, the presentation. Again the quiet words, though interspersed with muted laughter this time. Again, the bow._

 _It went on like this for some while, until at least half of the assembled Aes Sedai had been called to the throne. Then;_

" _Advance, Jaric Mondoran."_

 _No-one obeyed the summons. Tro realised that those nearest were looking at him expectantly._ He _must be Jaric! He gathered his courage and started up the steps. The closer he got to the Dragon, the more trepidation he felt. What if Lews Therin Telamon were to shout; 'impostor!' He did not, however. Instead, as Tro knelt, a richly-fashioned velvet badge was pressed into his hand. It was identical to the one on the First Among the Servant's cloak, the circular design depicting the Dragon biting its own tail, in imitation of the Eternal Serpent._

" _You are now a Companion to the Dragon," Lews Therin Telamon stated quietly, "may the Light always shine on you, Jaric."_

" _I thank you, Lord of the Morning," Tro replied in a voice not his own. He rose and bowed, descended the steps in a daze. He had met the Dragon! He was now a Companion! Surely, life got no better than this!_

 _Flash. Blink. Where? Who?_

 _And so it went. Life after life, death after death, Tro saw through the eyes of others, saw the evil and horror of the Shadow, the honour and justice of the Light. He was submerged in the foul miasma of the Dark One, he was raised up to shelter in the Hand of the Creator, and everything that could exist between these two polarities. He saw much, he listened well, and he learned. And then, finally, it ended._

 _Tro stepped from the aura of the crystalline tubes and stood blinking in the light as they slowly faded and became quiescent. He was back in the Collam Aman again. Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, stood watching him, smiling a thin smile._

" _At last," Chaime said, "I was beginning to fear that you might not return."_

 _Tro eyed the ancient Aes Sedai uncertainly. "How long?" he asked._

" _Almost three days."_

" _Oh. Seemed shorter. Also, longer."_

" _You are disorientated. Look at your chest. The left side."_

 _Tro pulled his vest out and looked. There was a shining blue tattoo, shaped like a triangle with curlicues at the points, etched into the skin over his heart. "What this?" he wondered._

" _What_ is _this."_

" _What is this?"_

" _It is your Lightmark. All Lightborn are given them. All of my Sons have them."_

"Sons? _" repeated Tro, blinking his strange eyes._

" _Yes. I constructed the Lightborn. I created_ you _, Tro. Therefore, to all intents and purposes, I am your Father. You are my Son. Does this please you?"_

 _Tro thought about it. Then, he smiled, his pointy teeth flashing. "Yes, Father."_

" _Excellent. Tell me, my Son; what do you wish to do with your life?"_

 _Again, Tro thought about it. There was really only one answer to give. He scowled, his pupils slitting. "Want to fight the Shadow," he growled._

 _"And so you shall."_

"Chami?" The voice came from the other side of the tapestry. "What are you _doing_ in there?" As usual, Mitsu sounded suspicious, but curious also.

N'aethan snapped out of his reverie and frowned. "I am making love to a beautiful Courtesan on top of a pile of rose petals!" he shouted, "what do you _think_ I am doing?!"

There was a pause. Then Feren's voice was heard, sounding uncertain; "are you _really_ , honoured Lightborn?"

"No! I was being sarcastic!" N'aethan stalked back to the hallway, twitching the tapestry aside. "Father's message was not in there," he muttered. Though he did not think it would have been… "Come. The Hall of Servants awaits. It is not far. It is an interesting place. There are stone carvings there, done by Father. You will see."

* * *

The Madman had no nose, just a blackened hole where it should have been. His skin was covered in weeping sores, he was filthy and wore but a ragged pair of britches. In one grimy hand he held a severed head by its long, lank hair. He muttered to himself as he wandered along through the forest, his bloodshot eyes wide and staring.

Feir and the Gholam, Thaeus also, watched from the bushes as he approached. Thaeus stared in fascination and revulsion. So _that_ was the fate that awaited him…

"Feir," Thaeus whispered.

"Uh-huh?"

"You… you'll _kill_ me, before I get like that, won't you?"

Feir didn't answer, just stared at him unreadably with her large, pale eyes.

"I will kill you, if you like," offered the Gholam softly. "I'll do it right now. Just say the word, human."

"Hush, Gholam!" hissed Feir. Then, she rose smoothly and stepped from cover with her habitual grace. "Hello Madman!" she called out, cheerfully.

The Madman stopped walking abruptly, and stared at her. He looked offended. "Not mad!" he shouted in a thick dialect of the Vulgar, "I am the Mountain God!"

"No you're not, blasphemer! There's only one God, and that's the Creator. Where did you get that head?"

"Not telling," replied the Madman slyly. "Mine now!"

"You're a real mess," commented Feir, disparagingly. "Really, you've got to be the _dirtiest_ Madman I've ever seen, and I've seen quite a few, I can tell you!"

The Madman seemed confused by this. "You dare to insult the Mountain God?" he muttered, in tones of disbelief.

The Gholam slipped from the bushes and stood beside Feir. "Ask him what he's doing up here, Mistress," it suggested.

"Good idea, Gholam. Hoy, Madman! Why aren't you down south in the Wastelands, with all the other Madmen?"

"It's a secret!" the Madman shouted back.

Thaeus joined Feir and the Gholam, blade drawn, though he felt somewhat superfluous.

The Madman raised the hand that was not holding the severed head. "Enough talk. You bore the Mountain God. Time to die, mortals!"

It might have been his imagination, but Thaeus thought he could see a nimbus of light forming around the Madman… the air shimmered and he could feel the temperature rising.

"He's trying to burn us," Feir muttered. "How unoriginal." She took a step forward. The light around the Madman shattered, the wave of heat dissipating. "I just disrupted your flows," Feir told the Madman. He looked at her with vague surprise. "Now it's feeding-time," she added. Feir seemed to inhale, her pupils expanding, then sighed with contentment. "The savour…" she whispered. She fingered her bronze blade, then glanced at Thaeus. "Would you mind awfully doing the honours? I'd rather not get too close to this one…"

"Certainly, my Lady." Thaeus glided forward, blade at the ready, gripped in his good hand.

The Madman watched him, looking confused. Then, his bloodshot eyes widened. "You like me!" he stated accusingly, " _souvraniene!_ "

"I'm _not_ like you," Thaeus growled. His injured shoulder precluded the usual two-handed form, so he lunged with the sword instead, stabbing the Madman neatly in the heart. As far as he was concerned, he was doing the fellow a favour, delivering mercy to one who was too far gone to save. And protecting others from his deadly madness, too. He twisted the blade as he withdrew, blood spurting from the hole in the Madman's chest. The Madman gazed at him, shock evident on his ruined face, then collapsed limply to the ground.

The Gholam made a soft, moaning sound at the sight of the gore. "Mistress?" it enquired.

"Very well, Gholam," Feir muttered, "you may feed."

The Gholam started forward eagerly. Thaeus wiped his sword clean on a rag and sheathed it at his back, watching as the Gholam knelt by the corpse. With a long-nailed finger, Feir authoritatively turned his face away from the grisly scene.

"Trust me, milord, you don't want to see this next bit," Feir murmured. She kissed him, somewhat demurely. Thaeus returned the kiss, putting his good arm around her shoulders, trying to ignore the wet, lapping sounds coming from the Gholam as it fed on the Madman's blood. His gaze came to rest on the severed head that the Madman had been holding by its dark hair. It had rolled on to the grass when he dropped it, lay a few paces away. His eyes widened.

Feir noticed. "What's wrong?"

Wordlessly, Thaeus pointed at the pale features of the head, framed by long, lank locks of hair. The mouth was open, teeth bared in a rictus of hatred, and the face lacked eyes, just smooth skin where they should have been.

Feir stared. "Is that what I think it is?"

Thaeus nodded. "Uh… I think we may have a problem..."

* * *

The Hall of Servants of the _Collam Aman_ was an enormous chamber, not so vast as the Grand Hall in Paaran Disen had been but long enough to make walking from one end of it to the other something of a chore. And of course, unlike the Grand Hall of the Servants and Paaran Disen itself, it was _still there_. It was gloomy in the Hall, the illuminations clearly had not functioned in a very long time, but N'aethan thought he could make out something on the long rectangular dais at the far end of the chamber.

Feren was still holding up the _sar_ -light though they did not really need it, faint rays of sun were still intruding through the skylights far above. Though it was approaching evening, N'aethan thought, they had best get back to his old living quarters before it got dark. But first, he had to know; what answers? What had Father meant? Couldn't he have just told him while he was still _alive?_

Mitsu's slurred tones intruded on his thoughts, as they so often did. "Who is that, Chami?" She had stopped walking, was pointing at one of the bas-relief carvings that filled the alcoves to either side at regular intervals. It depicted the head of a sallow-looking woman, wearing a haughty expression, attached to the body of a decorative bird of some kind.

N'aethan paused and sighed. "If I tell you, will you stop calling me 'Chami?'"

"No."

"I thought not. Well, I will tell you anyway. That is Milisaine."

"Who was she?" Feren asked, curiously.

"Oh, a powerful traitor Aes Sedai. One of the Forsaken, in the early days of the War. A vain woman, by all accounts, that is why Father depicted her as a peacock. That is to say; a peahen."

"There was no Forsaken by that name," Mitsu protested.

"There was! She was a rival of Graendal, who had her assassinated – something _you_ would know all about, Anchovy! They say a Gholam did it. Then Be'lal took her place on the Shadow Council, the dirty turncoat." N'aethan smiled coldly. "He is dead now," he added, with satisfaction. Too bad that Graendal wasn't… she was by far the more dangerous of the two.

"How do you know all this?" Mitsu demanded.

N'aethan opened his mouth, but Feren answered for him. "The Lightborn N'aethan comes from the Age of Legends," he explained, "he knows much that is lost."

"Yes I do," agreed N'aethan. Particularly about the notorious carvings of the Forsaken in their alcoves, all done by Father in his few spare moments. He had been a talented sculptor, amongst other things. The ancient Aes Sedai would walk with him down the length of the Hall when he was just a young lad, and if he could correctly name all of the Forsaken, he would be rewarded with sweets. He didn't much care for sugary things, but Ledrin did, so he would give them to the old Da'shain.

They resumed walking. Of course, when it came to the Age of Legends, his knowledge was not exactly infinite, since he had been born in the Light at the very start of the War of Power. By the time he went out into the world to do battle with the Shadow, much of civilisation had been destroyed, and was lost forever. At times, he thought that if anyone knew more about the last Age than he, it was probably Renn Sedai, who seemed to have soaked up every bit of esoteric knowledge about the previous Age that there was to be had… N'aethan sighed. He liked the earnest, scholarly young Aes Sedai, liked the fiery Shrina Sedai too, and _loved_ Ellythia Sedai. The thought of them and their brave Warders being held captive by an unknown enemy made him angry, very angry indeed.

N'aethan made a soft, growling sound. Feren and Mitsu eyed him cautiously. He did not notice. In order to rescue his companions, he would first have to _find_ them. He had a plan for doing so, to be enacted later that night. But first things first.

Eventually, they reached their goal, the dais at the end of the Hall of Servants of the Dragon College. Three things were upon it, none of which was a chair.

"There are usually chairs here," N'aethan explained to the others, not taking his eyes off the three things. The chairs in which the senior Aes Sedai had sat, to judge Father, and to decide N'aethan's fate. Though he had still been called 'Tro' back then. Well, the Dragon had overruled them in both instances. N'aethan owed his life, his entire existence, to Lews Therin Telamon. Something that he had never forgotten…

N'aethan approached the dais, climbing the brief steps that led up to it. Mitsu and Feren followed.

"What is that?" Feren asked, pointing a large finger at an array of crystal tubes, growing from a marble plinth.

"A messenger- _ter'angreal_ ," N'aethan answered vaguely, his attention on something else.

"Someone died here," Mitsu observed.

That much was obvious; a yellowing skeleton wrapped in a ragged cloak lay sprawled upon the dais, the bones of an adult male, judging by their size. That was two things; the third was unmistakeably an open and empty Stasis Box.

N'aethan examined it closely. It was much like the one in which he had slept those many years, if a little smaller. Undoubtedly a Jorlen Corbesan design. " _What did you do, Father?_ " he muttered in the High, then moved to the messenger- _ter'angreal_. It came alive at his approach, the crystal tubes humming and glowing; N'aethan turned briefly to the others. "Someone is about to appear, to speak to me," he explained, "but do not fear! It is _not_ a ghost!"

Feren merely blinked his large eyes.

"There are no such things as ghosts, Chami!" protested Mitsu, scathingly.

"There are no such things as Chamis, Anchovy!" N'aethan retorted, then turned back to the messenger, feeling pleased with himself.

"There _are_ ghosts," Feren muttered, but no-one paid any attention to him.

The air before them shimmered, and then Father appeared. At least, his image did. He looked a little younger than when N'aethan had last seen him, slightly less careworn. Even in the form of a glimmer-message, with the stones of the Hall's rear wall showing through his semi-transparent body, his dark, knowing eyes were as perceptive and penetrating as ever.

" _Hello, Father,_ " said N'aethan softly, in the High. " _It is good to see you again._ "

" _Greetings, my Son._ " Chaime Kufer spoke in Mino'tan, a dead language that only the two of them understood. " _I would that I could see you, see the Hero of the Light that you have become. I am proud of you, and apologise for my harsh words when you left my service and went north to the wars. But we shall certainly meet again before the End, you and I. It has been foretold._ "

" _We_ did _meet, Father,_ " N'aethan affirmed, not caring that the ancient Aes Sedai could not hear him. His brow furrowed. " _Foretold by whom?_ " he wondered.

Chaime Kufer continued; " _you are doubtless wondering who foretold our meeting. It was Deindre Sedai, naturally._ "

" _The Sister who never wore shoes!_ " N'aethan expostulated.

" _Shoes?_ " mumbled Feren. Mitsu said nothing, just stood their fingering the hilt of her sword, but her tilted eyes were a little wider than was usual.

" _Deindre has been of great service to me,_ " Chaime Kufer continued. " _She has predicted much which has come to pass, and more that has yet to transpire…_ " The glimmer-message flickered a little and Chaime straightened his stooped frame, fiddling with the horn-hilted blunt dagger that hung about his neck, as he always did when he was worried about something.

N'aethan moved a little nearer, paying close attention to the ancient words in the lost language.

" _My Son, I would have you to know that there is a weapon hidden here, in the far south. A terrible weapon. It was created by Adepts of the Shadow in the final days of the War, in response to the threat of the Choedan Kal…_ "

" _The what?_ " N'aethan muttered.

" _This weapon, known in the High Chant as 'Bhan'dhjin Samma' and in the Vulgar speech as 'The Breaker,' has the power to shatter the Great Wheel itself, to bring to an end all existence so that the Great L- that is to say, so that the Dark One might reign over nothingness, as has ever been his wont._ "

" _But who would be insane enough to use such a weapon?_ " N'aethan wondered.

" _Weapon?_ " mumbled Feren.

" _You are doubtless wondering who would be insane enough to use such a weapon, my Son._ " Chaime Kufer spread his long-fingered hands in apology. " _I regret to say that I know not. I am merely a_ _ware of that which Deindre has told me; that unless you intervene, the Bhan'dhjin Samma, The Breaker – hidden beyond my ken – will ultimately be unleashed. All life as we know it will cease to exist. You must prevent this from happening, at all costs. It is a task of more import than Tarmon Gai'don itself, even. A task which I do not entrust to you alone…_ "

 _Here it comes_ , N'aethan thought.

" _There is a fourth Lightborn._ "

" _I_ know _, Father! I saw the tubule in your secret laboratory, the one with 'four' in the Root Speech stencilled on it! I'm not stupid!_ "

Chaime continued; " _I sent the Fourthborn here to seek out the weapon and prepare for your arrival._ " His thin-lipped mouth twitched slightly, the closest Father ever came to smiling. " _She eagerly anticipates finally meeting her Brother._ "

N'aethan's mouth dropped open. He had not considered that the fourth Lightborn would not be male… he had a Sister! He had always wanted a Sister…

" _There remains but one thing to say, my Son._ " Chaime Kufer smiled his slight smile again, a touch sardonically this time. " _Good luck._ "

* * *

A war-council of sorts was taking place in Ysmet Mitsobar's cabin. It held the largest room in the camp, but this was not saying much. With nine people inside, it was rather cramped. Ysmet and Rashiel sat beside each other on her narrow cot, one of the few pieces of furniture that had been salvaged from her wrecked ship, the Queen Mab. As usual, whenever she thought of her lost craft, Ysmet felt a tide of regret and anger rise within her. Curse that storm! And curse the coral reef onto which it had driven them. Well, she would salvage what she could and build another ship, a better one, and escape this dreadful place…

Dagnon Gaidin hovered protectively over Rashiel, the Bosun performing the same office for his Captain. Though he would never admit it, he was devoted to Ysmet, fiercely loyal. The three Aiel squatted on the sandy floor, leaning on their spears, seeming perfectly content to do without chairs. The guide, Gen, was hunkered down by the doorway, gnawing on a cheese rind. Ysmet had relented and allowed him some of his favourite food, despite their dwindling stocks… she could only hope to receive some lucid information in return for her largess. You could never tell with Gen, some days he was almost rational, on others… and that left Roth, over in the corner, perched on a wobbly, three-legged stool. He was not taking part in the council, but idly strumming soft chords on his harp.

Ysmet sighed. Her husband… a feckless Gleeman! Who would have thought it? What would Aunt Tylin say, if she ever found out? Which she likely would not, since they were probably doomed to rot in this accursed land until death took them… her rather morbid train of thought was interrupted by a query from the chief Aielman, the big, scarred fellow with the red glass eye… she thought he was called 'Caradin.' Odd names, these Aiel had…

"Tell me, Ysmet Mitsobar," the chief of the Aiel enquired, "do you possess a 'boat?'" He spoke the word as though it were unfamiliar to him, which it doubtless was. "I do not mean the larger manner of 'ship' but the smaller craft, that may be propelled across the water with… with…"

"Oars," muttered the short Aielman.

"Yes, them!" agreed the one-eyed chief.

Ysmet glanced at the Bosun, who answered for her; "we saved a longboat from the wreck. Which we keeps it hidden in a cove, not far to the west."

The chief of the Aiel nodded. "Then we must take this 'long boat' to rescue the Aes Sedai from the isle of the painted fools… and free their Warders too, I suppose…" He turned his disturbing gaze on Gen. "You, Madland cheese-eater! Did you not say that these 'Hawx' who lack honour dwell upon some kind of an island?"

Gen sucked his yellow teeth thoughtfully, then answered in his cracked, oddly-accented voice. He had learned the Vulgar in Illian, picking up a trace of the local patois. "Aye, Aielman. The Isle of the Spire, they do calls it." He leered at Rashiel. "Your channelings won't work there, my busty lovely!"

Dagnon scowled and fingered his sword-hilt, but Rashiel just laughed. She reached into a leather bag, took out a small square of cheese and tossed it to Gen. He snagged it from the air and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing with relish.

"And just why won't my channeling work there?" Rashiel demanded.

"Because of the Spire, in course!" Gen responded, impatiently. "Tis a thing of the last Age, and right potent it do be! And it do prevent the dread power from being used, though I knows not how. Tis why the Hawx-" he paused, to make a spitting sound "-do live there… afeared are they, of the Madmen!" He thought about it. "As am I," he added, mournfully.

"Then it is simple," said the red-eyed chief, "we shall go there by 'boat' and wake these Hawx, then rescue the prisoners."

Everyone looked at him. Some shook their heads slowly.

"I think that there are too many to wake," the short Aielman pointed-out.

"Of course there are!" Ysmet snapped, "if you have no better suggestion than that, Aielman, then keep silent!"

"I do not fear to dance with the enemy, for all that they outnumber me," the chief Aiel muttered sulkily. He lapsed into offended silence.

In the corner, Roth twanged a loud, discordant chord. All eyes turned to him. He addressed the Aiel; "you _are_ the sneaking Shaido, are you not? It is not just meant to be a clever name! Couldn't you just, well, _sneak_ in there under cover of darkness? And rescue Shrina and the others _without_ dancing the spears?"

The Aiel looked at each other while Ysmet frowned at the mention of Shrina's name. She liked the young Aes Sedai well enough, but suspected that Roth still held a candle for her… she had been his first love, after all, and it was difficult to compete with something like that.

"What of your magickal pipe, Gleeman?" the Aiel maiden asked.

"Yes," agreed the short Aielman, "were we hidden from sight, our chances of not being seen would improve."

The maiden nodded, but the chief of the Aiel said nothing, was clearly still sulking.

Roth shook his head. "No good, I'm afraid; you have to stand perfectly still whilst using it. If you move around, there is a sort of shimmering effect in the air and you stand out like a sore thumb."

Ysmet scowled darkly. "What 'magickal pipe' is this, Roth?" she enquired, her voice dangerously calm.

Roth licked his lips nervously, looking a little like a guilty dog that has been caught stealing sausages. "Oh, did I not mention it, my sweet? It is just a silly _ter'angreal_ that confers invisibility 'pon the user… Old Willi gifted it to me when he retired from a life of Gleemanry… it has saved my skin on a number of occasions."

"And why did you not tell me of this before?" Ysmet demanded.

"Uh… well, my love, I…"

"By the Light, I am tired of you keeping secrets from me, husband!"

"I don't! I mean, I didn't… I just forgot I had it, that is all!"

Ysmet took a deep breath. Rashiel elbowed her in the ribs. "If you two are going to start arguing again, then we're leaving," she threatened. "Come, Dagnon!" Rashiel began to rise from the cot, but Ysmet grabbed the back of her gown and yanked, making her sit again.

"Alright, no arguing," Ysmet growled. She turned an imperious gaze on Roth. "Return to your harping, songbird," she commanded him, "we shall speak of this at a later time."

Roth sighed, and did as he was bade. Ysmet supposed that she _did_ argue with her husband rather a lot, especially since the misfortune of their being shipwrecked, but the kissing and making-up that invariably followed on from these altercations was undeniably pleasant… except for when it was interrupted! On the last occasion, Rashiel had come bursting in on them while they were making love, relating the grim news of the Aes Sedai and Warder's capture whilst she and Roth scrambled back into their clothes.

Though it was nothing the young Aes Sedai had not seen before! Back in Ebou Dar, when Ysmet had been a Noblewoman of House Mitsobar and Rashiel had been her constant companion, they had often shared men… amorous experiences… but then, Rashiel had gone off to the White Tower, somewhat reluctantly, and Ysmet had been expected to make an advantageous match with a high-born fool. Well, she had run away from the Tarasin Palace and married a fool of her own choosing instead! Ysmet surprised Roth by darting a fond glance at him, then turned to Gen.

"How many Hawx soldiers are there?" Ysmet enquired.

"There do be a great many, good my Lady. Warriors and hunters and scouts, why, they do almost rivals the forces of the Laughing God." Gen quailed at mention of that name, for all that _he_ was the one who had mentioned it…

"The what? Who?" Ysmet demanded, but Gen would not speak further, hiding his face in his hands and making low, moaning sounds. Ysmet sighed. He wasn't much of a guide, admittedly, but was all she had. Ysmet glanced at the three Aiel. "My sailors are unaccustomed to venturing on land," she explained, "which of you is the most skilled tracker? The best at moving covertly?" The one-eyed chief and the maiden both turned to look at the small Aielman with the twin scars on his cheeks.

"Me," the short Aiel declared, then his brow furrowed, "but the enemy left in boats – I cannot track them over the waves!"

"You will not need to. We require more information about the Hawx before we can act. The Bosun and some of my men will take you to the Isle of the Spire at night, you are to investigate but not engage our foe, try to learn where the prisoners are kept." Ysmet's voice was crisp, concise, that of one accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed.

The diminutive Aielman nodded. "This I can do."

Ysmet smiled coldly. "Roth shall go with you. His mysterious _ter'angreal_ may prove efficacious."

A loud twang from the harp. "Me?" cried Roth, "but…"

"Good. Then that is settled." Ysmet rose. "May the Light shine on you," she told the Aiel.

"May you always find water and shade," their chief responded, grudgingly.

Gen raised his head from his hands. "Is there any more cheese?" he whined. He was ignored.

Ysmet led the way outside, glad of the fresh air after the rather dank interior of the hut. The Bosun went to organise the boat trip. Roth remained inside, doubtless brooding over the unfairness of it all. Gen wandered away to his own hut; he had one to himself since none of the sailors wanted to share with him. Rashiel was clutching Dagnon's arm and whispering something into his ear. He was blushing.

Ysmet noted that the chief Aielman was looking around as though seeking someone. "Where is Gerom?" she heard him ask the other Aiel, "he should have been at the council…"

"We could have used his wisdom and book-learning," the short Aiel agreed.

"He would have been too big to fit through the door," the maiden observed, dryly. Then, her green eyes widened and she pointed with her spear. "Look! There he is! What is he wearing?"

The gate was lowered and the strange Aielman Ruon was coming through it, bearing two heavy buckets of water from the stream that he had found in the forest. Behind him walked the big Aielman, Gerom, carrying two more buckets. He was unarmed and instead of the usual sandy-coloured clothing, wore white. Ysmet was unaware of the significance of this, but it certainly seemed to trouble the Aiel, by their reaction. As Gerom came closer, she could see that he had apparently fashioned a piece of spare sailcloth into a loose robe. The other Aiel went to meet him. Ysmet followed, curious.

"Why are you clad as Gai'shain, Gerom?" the red-eyed chief demanded.

The big Aielman put down his buckets and smiled gently. "Because that is what I am, Cohradin," he answered. "I am now sworn to peace in battle."

"What is this foolishness? Where are your spears? Your knife?"

"I broke my spears. My knife, I threw into the ocean."

The chief – Cohradin – made a spluttering sound.

The Aiel maiden – Roth had told Ysmet she was called 'Magda' – gasped.

The short Aielman looked concerned. "For how long will you be Gai'shain, my brother?" he asked, "for a year and a day?"

Gerom shook his big head slowly. "For the rest of my life, Chassin," he answered, "however long that may be." He nodded to Ruon, who was pouring water into the cistern and ignoring them. "Ruon yet wears the cadin'sor, to remind him of what he was, but since we were as Gai'shain to the Aes Sedai in the Age of Legends, I have put on the white in perpetuity." He sighed mournfully. "Do you not understand, my brothers? Our ancestors broke the Covenant. Their dishonour is ours. We have toh to the Aes Sedai that can only be met in one way. _This_ way."

"That is nonsense!" the one called Cohradin shouted. His eyes narrowed alarmingly. "If you say we have toh to the Aes Sedai, then that much is true, I grant you – but do you think you can meet it by dressing up as a Gai'shain and doing a Gai'shain's work? That is not good enough!"

Gerom raised his large hands placatingly. "Please, Cohradin, let us not argue over it. I have made my choice."

"Well, it is a _bad_ choice!" Cohradin continued to shout, "carry buckets around like that foolish Tomanelle Water Seeker over there all you want, you will never meet your toh that way! You think your honour greater than mine, Gerom? We shall see about that! I will show you – I will show you all!" And with that, Cohradin stalked angrily away, muttering furiously to himself. The other Aiel watched him go, bemused.

Ysmet watched also. _Aiel really are the strangest people_ , she considered.

* * *

N'aethan sat on his old bed, in his old room, in the heart of the Dragon College. It felt strange to be back here, after so many years. The bed had a Keeping woven on it, like the tapestries and other items, or it probably would have crumbled to dust when he put his weight on it. He looked at the ornate door to his room, more sung-wood, with briars carved into it. His eyes were slightly glazed, focused on something far away. Remembering…

 _Tro sat on the bed in his room. He had never owned a bed before, nor a room either, for that matter. It was all much nicer than the cage had been, but he felt at something of a loss even so… what was he to do now? After dinner, Father had told him to get some sleep, but he did not feel remotely tired. He did not need to sleep much, part of what the ancient Aes Sedai called his 'Design.' His experiences within the crystal tubes, a powerful 'ter'angreal' he had been informed, were still very much with him. It was all rather a lot to take in, for one so young and inexperienced…_

 _The fancy door of his room swung open without being knocked upon first and Tro looked up, expecting to see Father. Perhaps he had forgot to tell him something? Instead, a tall, pale youth stepped into the room, moving with serpentine grace. He closed the door quietly behind him. He had long white hair, like Tro's, and wore a dark coat and britches tucked into soft knee-boots. There was something rather disquieting about the youth. He did not say anything, but stood with his arms crossed, looking at Tro. Which was strange, since he had a white cloth tied over the upper half of his face, covering his eyes. Though he had never seen him before, Tro felt there was something oddly familiar about the youth, though he couldn't have said exactly what._

 _"Who you?" asked Tro._

 _"Taw." The youth's voice was whispery, eerie, seeming to echo in his mind as much as his ears. "And you are Tro."_

 _"Yes, Three," affirmed Tro._

 _A half-smile appeared briefly on Taw's thin-lipped mouth. "Can you count?"_

 _Tro blinked his strange eyes, then held up a hand, spreading his clawed fingers and thumb one by one. "One, two, three, four, five," he chanted._

 _"Good. I heard that is more than Wan could do, when he first arrived." Taw raised a pale, long-nailed hand. He extended the first finger. "Wan. Firstborn." A second finger. "Taw. Secondborn._ Me. _" A third. "Tro. Thirdborn. That is_ you _, Brother!"_

 _"Brother?" Tro repeated, wonderingly. Apart from the hair, they did not seem very alike… and yet… Tro rose from the bed and moved to the centre of the room. Taw's head turned, covered eyes following him. "How you see me?" Tro asked._

 _"Easily," Taw responded, in his strange, whispering voice._

 _Tro considered a moment. "You_ scary _, Brother!" he remarked._

 _At which, Taw did something disconcerting – he laughed. It sounded like the unquiet crumbling of rotten bones. "Yes, I am. I'm_ supposed _to be. Father made me that way, all part of his Design."_

 _"Where Wan?" Tro asked, "he our Brother too?"_

 _"Yes he is. The Firstborn is at the War." Taw scowled darkly and Tro flinched. "Where I would be right now, if Father would bloody let me! I want to scourge the Shadow. I want to_ kill _. Yes, I very badly want to kill something."_

 _Tro thought about one of the visions he had seen in the ter'angreal. "Our Brother, Wan – he big?"_

 _"Yes. Very big. And not very smart, either."_

 _"I see him! In the… the…" Tro did not have the words to describe the ter'angreal, the crystalline tubes that glowed and pulsed._

 _Taw raised a thin, sardonic eyebrow. "The Tester? The ter'angreal, made up of crystal tubes?"_

 _"Yes. That."_

 _"Father must be getting desperate if he sent you in there so soon," Taw mused, in his disquieting voice. His expression became almost wistful. "I myself saw wonderful things in there, and terrible things also. I think that I preferred the terrible. But that is my nature, after all." Taw paused, then asked; "what else did you see, Tro?"_

 _Tro blinked. With his limited vocabulary, it was impossible to describe such visions. "I... not have the words…"_

 _"Oh, but you will. You strike me as being a fast learner, Brother… and you will_ need _to be!" Taw abruptly grinned alarmingly, white teeth flashing in his pale face. "You know, my predecessor went in there and never came out? I suppose that he did not like what he saw." Taw shrugged his wide shoulders. "He was weak. We are strong, you and I. You have to be strong if you want to slay the Shadow."_

 _"Want to! Very much!"_

 _"Good enough. I like your claws, by the way. Wish I had some. Come." Taw went to the door, lingering when Tro did not immediately follow._

 _"Where go to?" Tro asked._

 _"Outside. You've never been outside, have you?"_

 _"No," Tro muttered, blinking, then; "is allowed?"_

 _"Of course not! But rules were made to be broken. Are you coming or not?"_

 _Tro hesitated – then joined his Brother._

 _Taw nodded approvingly. "We shall have to be quiet," he told Tro, "there are Warmen guard on all the exits, but I know a way out to the forest that not even Father is aware of." He considered for a moment, then grinned again. "Oh, one last thing…" Swiftly, Taw raised the white cloth from his eyes – except that there_ were _no eyes, just bare, pale skin. "Boo!" he hissed._

 _Tro screamed._

N'aethan smiled ruefully. Middle Brother and his dreadful sense of humour… but he had been kind to him, in his own, disconcerting way, had taught him much about the Dragon College and the world outside, which he had visited, though unauthorised to do so. He always went his own way, Taw did. He remembered the arguments that the Secondborn had with Father… he remembered much. Too much.

N'aethan opened his mouth and yawned hugely, exposing sharp, white teeth. It felt like an Age since he had last slept, even though it had only been the previous night, at the _stedding_ , but mere sleep was not his intent. His sharp ears could pick up distant, rumbling, Ogier-sized snores emanating from Big Brother's old room. Feren had been impressed by the size of the bed in there, the largest item of sung-wood he had ever beheld – but had been confused by the soft toy bear, a golden circle on its chest, that had been reclining on the pillow. Apparently, the Ogier did not go in for such things…

Mitsu was out in the sitting room, keeping watch. When last N'aethan saw her, she was occupying a sung-wood armchair, feet propped up on a sung-wood stool, bared blade resting across her knees, dark, tilted eyes fixed on the doorway that led out to the hall. N'aethan didn't know why he trusted this strange assassin to watch over his sleep, but he did. She had sworn an oath, after all, and seemed to take such things very seriously.

Again, he thought about Father's message. He was not sure what to do about this weapon, The Breaker. Its name in the High, the Old Tongue, was more convoluted. He had gained a second opinion from Feren, and they both agreed that the closest translation for ' _Bhan'dhjin Samma_ ' was 'the eradicating terror that destroys.' This did not bode well. He supposed he must find it and dispose of it, if that were even possible. Perhaps his Sister had already located it? Yes, that was the other thing – he had a Sister! He was no longer the Last Lightborn! What was she like, he wondered? What would a female Lightborn comprise, personality-wise? But that was all for tomorrow, tonight he had an important task to carry out…

N'aethan removed his boots and lay down on the bed, shutting his eyes… but sleep eluded him. The mattress was too soft, that was the problem. In the end, he curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed, his sword unsheathed and near at hand, just in case. Somnolence soon descended upon him and in the blink of an eye, he was in the World of Dreams. _Tel'aran'rhiod._

Unlike his last intentional visit to this eldritch place, he did not bother to adapt his corporeal form to a more normal template, but left his claws and ears the same as they appeared in the waking world. Though he was aware, with a vague sense of guilt, that he might have made himself a little taller… The stones of the _Collam Aman_ became thin and insubstantial as he rose up through several levels to stand on the roof of the vast edifice, the dark green forest surrounding it on all sides. In the distance, N'aethan thought he could hear the howling of wolves, which added a touch of the familiar, he had not thought there were any of these creatures in this strange land. He glanced west, in the direction of the _stedding_ , but knew better than to go there. They were one of the few places that did not seem to exist in the Dream World. Did Ogier dream? He was not sure. He would ask Feren, if he remembered to. Besides, he had another task, that night.

N'aethan closed his eyes and concentrated. This next bit was difficult, but Deindre Sedai had taught him how, long ago. She had been a good teacher… he wondered what had become of her? Most probably, she gave her life to create the Eye of the World, along with Solinda Sedai and the others. Someshta would know…

With difficulty, N'aethan blanked his rather undisciplined mind of all thoughts and feelings, entering a meditative state. When he opened his eyes again, he was floating in an expanse of endless darkness, punctuated by a myriad of tiny white lights. Each light a sleeping person; each light a dream. He sought out one light in particular, as he had before, when he came through the Portal Stone. Ellythia Sedai. There she was, a light seemingly no different from all of the others, but he knew instinctively that it was hers.

N'aethan approached. Cautiously, he entered Ellythia's dream. Where was he? A large manor house, whitewashed wood atop a foundation of dressed stone, loomed before him. There were many windows, a ramp leading up to wide double doors, stables and outbuildings clustered around the back. Tall poplar trees lined a driveway on either side, N'aethan walked down it, his feet crunching on gravel, and paused by the ramp. Should he go inside? Was Ellythia Sedai in there? There didn't seem to be anyone about… and then, a young maiden came trotting around the side of the manor house, mounted on a rather fat pony with white ribbons twined in its mane. Her chestnut hair was curled into ringlets, she wore a white sun-dress with divided skirts and matching slippers, an expression of detachment on her pretty face as she sang softly to herself…

N'aethan knew immediately that he was looking at Ellythia Sedai as she must have appeared a decade or so ago. The girl saw him at the same time he saw her and her dark eyes widened in surprise and delight.

"Naythan!" she squealed, slipping down from the pony, which promptly disappeared, and running towards him across the grass, graceful and light on her feet. As she ran, she _changed,_ growing taller, more slender, older, until she became the person he had come to know and admire… and love… in the waking world. She flew into his arms, hugging him close and he held her tightly. "It is really you!" Ellyth cried, "I have missed you so much… I thought that I might never see you again!"

"Well, you see me now, Ellythia Sedai."

Ellyth stared at him in something like wonder. "You finally got my name right!"

"I have been practicing." N'aethan smiled fondly down at Ellyth. They kissed, for what seemed a long time.

"Is this real?" Ellyth murmured, when their lips finally broke contact, "it is a dream, yes?"

"Yes. And no. Quickly, tell me where you are being held – describe the place, so that I can find you!"

Ellyth visibly collected herself, her slim arms still draped about his shoulders. "It is an island, about a mile offshore from the mainland… there is a rough-hewn, granite fortress built at the southernmost end…" she blinked, "wait! There is a three-sided silver Spire, a relic of the Age of Legends. It stands upon a hill to the north of the castle…"

N'aethan nodded. "I can find that. Be patient, help is at hand."

Ellyth frowned, her delicate brows drawing down. "The Spire is a great _ter'angreal_ , it prevents myself and the others from channeling… please hurry! They want to execute Shrina and Jabal!"

"I will hurry." N'aethan glanced at the big house. "What is this place, Ellythia Sedai?"

"Just 'Ellyth.' It is the manor where I was born. I often dream of it…"

"A coincidence! I am currently at the place of _my_ birth, also!"

Ellyth smiled. "Where you were born in the Light, Naythan." N'aethan smiled back. "But how are you here, in my dream?"

"It is a talent I have, a gift from the Creator, mayhap." Quickly, N'aethan gave a brief explanation of _Tel'aran'rhiod_ , and his ability to visit it. Ellyth listened intently, confusion giving way to acceptance and understanding.

"It must be marvellous, to walk in dreams," Ellyth murmured.

"It can be dangerous also…"

Ellyth looked him up and down. "So you can be anything and wear whatever you want, here? I must say, you look very smart…"

N'aethan glanced down at himself and realised that he was resplendent in the dress-uniform of a Warman Officer, complete with epaulettes and gold braid. He blushed. "Tis an Officer's garb and in truth, I have no right to it," he explained.

"Well, I think that it looks rather good on you, yes?" Ellyth smiled shyly. "Though I prefer you without…" She seemed to concentrate for a moment, and the Officer's uniform vanished, leaving N'aethan unclothed. He blinked. Well, it was _her_ dream after all, she was in control. But this was _Tel'aran'rhiod_ , and so was he. With a grin, N'aethan caused Ellyth's white dress to disappear. She was quite naked beneath – now, it was her turn to blush. They embraced and kissed again, more urgently this time, eyes closed. When they opened them, they hung in infinite darkness, studded with countless lights. Ellyth did not ask where she was, but merely accepted it, responding pleasingly to N'aethan's kisses and caresses, as he responded to hers. In the heart of the Dream, they floated in emptiness, giving and receiving pleasure in equal measure.

 _From a place of concealment far above, though 'above' was a relative concept in the Dream Void, pale blue eyes peered at them with interest through the eye-holes of a mask. An ancient, bronze mask, fashioned in the likeness of a smiling fox's face._

 _While even further above, bright, golden eyes warily watched the watcher..._


	5. Chapter 4 : The Dream

**Gleeman Bob writes :** _no flashbacks in this chapter! a couple of fights, some arguing and Cohradin being stupid, as usual! also; the return of an old enemy and the introduction of a new character. hope you like it, keep those reviews coming if you do, or even if you don't, and remember - I am just making it up as I go along! but we all do that... it is called 'life.'_

 _Walk in the Light!_

* * *

 _A small, plump girl watched with dark, owlish eyes as her father made his slow way up the rickety ladder, a bundle of thatch propped on his bony shoulder. In one hand the girl held a poorly-stitched rag-doll, which she treasured, since her mother had made it for her. Her mother; who the black fever had taken the year before. The other hand was raised to her face, thumb securely lodged in her mouth. Father had repeatedly told her that she was too old – nine – to suck her thumb, but she did it anyway. It comforted her._

 _The only thing that comforted her more, was books, and there were few enough of them to be had in this tiny, isolated village. She had learned to read at a much earlier age than most, had a capacity for retaining knowledge that amazed her father, but he was only a poor thatcher in the dying, swamp-bound nation of Mar Haddon and could not afford to provide her with the schooling that she needed. It didn't matter. They had each other. That was enough._

 _"_ Hello, Maigret. _"_

 _The girl took her thumb out of her mouth and turned her head to see who had addressed her… she did not recognise the voice. A man stood on the other side of the fence that bordered the small cottage her father was busy thatching. A strange-looking man, swathed in a heavy, black cloak that concealed much about him. But strangest of all, he wore a mask of dull metal, shaped like a fox's face. Pale, blue eyes stared at her through the eye-holes._

 _"Who are you?" Maigret asked._

 _The strange man laughed softly, the sound of his mirth echoing within the confines of the mask. "_ All in good time, my dear, _" he replied, mysteriously. The mask turned this way and that as he glanced about the small, dingy village, taking in the tumbledown cots, the drably-dressed people moving about on various errands, the pigs and chickens roaming the dirt lanes. "_ You know, I grew up in a place not unlike this, _" the masked man remarked. "_ When I left, I never looked back. And neither will you. _"_

 _Maigret opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but the stranger shook his head, the odd fox mask moving from side to side. "_ We shall meet again, you and I… there is a bargain to be struck. _" The mask seemed to grow in size until it filled her vision, pale blue eyes staring straight into her soul, the strange man's voice echoing all about her; "_ you can wake up now, Maigret! _"_

The dark, bird-like eyes of Arachnae Kirikil, as she now called herself, snapped open. She sat upright on the small, uncomfortable camp-bed, repressing a groan. Her back ached fiercely, but she ignored it with long practice.

"Fox-mask," Arachnae muttered, considering the dream. She did not often think about the long-dead village of her birth, or her long-dead father either, though occasionally dreamt of them. But the presence of a mysterious stranger in a bronze mask shaped like a smiling fox's face – _that_ had certainly never occurred before. And how had he known her true name? Only certain members of the accursed Black Ajah and the Great Lord himself knew _this_. Something else had been strange about the dream visitation… of course! The stranger had addressed her in the dark tongue of the Shadow! Presumably a Friend, then… and a powerful one at that, to walk at will in her dreams, which were closely warded. Not one of the Chosen certainly, they had no need for elaborate disguises, would have just identified themselves straight away. Then who? Something about the strange intruder filled her with disquiet, a feeling to which she was unused.

Arachnae shook her head angrily and reached for her _sa'angreal_ , a bar of dark, multi-faceted crystal. It was very powerful, and she knew that she would need every bit of that power for the task that awaited her. Arachnae sighed. She was more than eight-hundred years old and longed not for death, as some of that age might, but for immortality, eternal youth, the banishment of persistent aches and pains… oh, to be young again! Well, it was in the Great Lord of the Dark's power to grant her this boon, but first she must deal with an ancient enemy of his... the Dragonspawn. And take her revenge on those callow Aes Sedai girls who had the temerity to defy her. They would pay dearly for their insolence!

"Ranim!" Arachnae called, in her ancient, reedy voice. The flap of the small tent she currently occupied was swept back and Ranim ducked inside. The former Tuatha'an youth put a hand over his heart and bowed formally.

"Good morning, Dread Mistress," Ranim greeted her softly, "did you sleep well?"

"Not particularly. My dreams were interrupted by a- well, let us just say that there has been a new development, my dear."

Ranim's cold, blue, unblinking gaze did not waver. He knew that to his Mistress, dreams were not mere dreams, but something more. But curiosity was not part of his nature, he merely awaited her next command with ineffable patience.

"Help me out of this confounded bed would you, my honey-bun..?"

Ranim stepped briskly forward and took Arachnae's arm gently, aiding her in rising to her feet. She noted that her personal assassin and bodyguard was wearing particularly garish shades today; an eye-wrenching combination of bright green coat, sky-blue britches and his customary crimson boots. Arachnae herself was less fully clad, but did not mind, it was hardly the first time that Ranim had seen her in her shift. She had once asked him why he continued to dress as one of the Travelling Folk after he was cast out, and he had promptly answered that it made his victims underestimate him, made them easier to kill. Fair enough.

Arachnae knew that Ranim had been awake all night, guarding her tent, but she did not sense any weariness in him, just the customary cold resolve. After all, the Warder Bond gave him the ability to do without sleep for long periods.

"Pass me my-" Arachnae began to say, but Ranim had already retrieved the dark purple gown from the back of the camp-chair and was holding it out to her. Arachnae smiled. The Bond worked both ways; through long practice, Ranim could anticipate her needs, sometimes supplying her with something before she even knew that she wanted it. "Thank you, sweetling. You would make a good Zomara! Is there any news?"

"Reinforcements arrived in the night, Mistress. A scurvy lot by the looks of them, sent from Circles in Maradon, Bandar Eban and Katar, as per your request."

Arachnae made a tutting sound. "It has been a long time since I _requested_ anything, my caution. I think that you will find it was a _command_."

Ranim nodded curtly. "But of course, forgive my mistake, Dread Mistress."

Arachnae chuckled softly and pinched Ranim's cheek affectionately. "I'm just teasing, deary. Do try to develop a sense of humour!"

Ranim attempted to smirk, but failed miserably.

Arachnae sighed, took the gown from him and struggled into it. "Assist me with these confounded buttons, would you?" After buttoning up her dress, locating her shoes and kneeling to help lace them, Ranim led the way outside.

Arachnae blinked in the dawning light, taking in her bleak surroundings. Shattered rocks, barren cliffs and a shingle beach leading down to the turgid Dead Sea. Behind them; the damp and deadly forest of the Blight. To think that this desolate shore had once been the site of the fabled city of M'jinn! Ancient edifices and objects fascinated her, they always had, and none more so than the relics of the Age of Legends. But then, there were artefactss even older than _that_ … such as Portal Stones.

Arachnae scowled. That dratted girl and her Dragonspawn protector and the rest of them… they had the Dark One's own luck, to escape her clutches via such a device! She realised what she had done and slapped herself chidingly on the wrist. The Great Lord of the Dark. Not the Dark One. She was going dotty, in her old age!

To the right of the tent waited three score of brutal-looking men, clad in dark woollens and cloaks, armed with a variety of blades. Arachnae ignored them, for now. They were presumably expendable, or their Circles would not so readily have sent them up to the Blight, from which few returned.

To the left stood a double-fist of Trollocs, a half-dozen Myrddraal at their fore, as well as a dozen Draghkar scouts. All that remained of her proud army; the rest had been dispersed elsewhere, at the orders of one of the Chosen. She did not know which one. Arachnae frowned. One could not argue with one's superiors about troop movements, but the decision still rankled. She suspected that it had been done to admonish her for her failure to kill or capture the Dragonspawn. Well, these few Shadowspawn would have to do. She had other weapons in her arsenal. Duadh and his people, what was left of them, at least. Irmilla, of course. And…

Arachnae glanced around. No sign of them. She turned to Ranim. "Where-?" she began to ask, but the way his eyes widened as he jerked the dark, Thakan'dar-forged blade from its sheath made her whirl around, _sa'angreal_ raised, saidar flowing into her, danger anticipated…

Three tall figures had appeared from nowhere. They wore the cadin'sor and carried spears, but were no longer Aiel. The veils that partially covered their faces were not black, but red.

"Don't _do_ that!" Arachnae snapped.

The middle one, their leader, lowered his veil and grinned. His teeth were sharp, filed to points. "Forgiveness, Wise One," he stated, in a clear voice, "but the _Samma N'Sei_ walk softly – it is our custom." He glanced at Ranim with merciless green eyes. "Are you going to try to stab me with that little blade, Lost One?"

Ranim scowled dangerously. "Have a care, Shadowrunner – if I but cut you with this shard of darkness, you will not live to regret it," he warned.

The red-veiled killer was unperturbed by this, continued to grin. Arachnae suspected that he wasn't quite all there. These three Eye-Blinders, as they called themselves, were all tolerably powerful male channelers, supposedly protected from the Great Lord's taint… but that did not mean that they had not lost some of their sanity between the time that they discovered they could touch the Source and walked north to 'wake the Dark One' as the Aiel colourfully put it, and the time they were captured and Turned to the Shadow. Arachnae was unsure why Ishamael had sent the trio of _Samma N'Sei_ – to spy on her, most probably – but she would make good use of them, even so.

"Put-up your knife, Ranim-dear," Arachnae murmured, "we're all Friends here." Still scowling, Ranim obeyed, reluctantly sheathing his dark blade. "And you, Zaradin," she added, addressing the Eye-Blinder leader, "don't call Ranim a 'Lost One.' He doesn't care to be reminded of his lowly origins."

Zaradin ceased grinning and raised his veil. "As you say, Wise One," he muttered, voice somewhat muffled. His green eyes flicked toward Ranim, narrowing slightly. Clearly, there was little love lost between them…

"Walk with us down to the beach," Arachnae suggested, though they all knew it was no suggestion. She set off, Ranim heeling her, a hand on his hilt. Zaradin hesitated, then made some hand signs to the other two _Samma N'Sei_ , who turned and stalked silently back into the blighted forest, before following.

The Trollocs and Draghkar watched Arachnae fearfully as she paced slowly past them. The Myrddraal remained aloof. Nothing scared them, not even her. Arachnae ignored them all. They were just tools, and not particularly useful tools at that. And to ensure their loyalty, one had to set stern examples of the high price of failure…

With this in mind, Arachnae glanced up at the cliff that overlooked the bay. A dozen tall wooden stakes were set up there, pointing at the sky. On each, a dead Myrddraal was impaled. It had taken them a long time to die. They were the ones who had failed her back at the mysterious tomb, which had regrettably been destroyed before she could discover its secrets. They had not managed to kill the Dragonspawn, allowed it to escape and then had neglected their duty further by riding the shadows to safety, leaving Ranim and his men to die. So, she had made an object lesson out of them, for the encouragement of the others...

Shingles crunched beneath her shoes as Arachnae made her careful way down the beach, Ranim and Zaradin following.

"I did not think it possible, that there could be so much _water_ in the world," Zaradin commented, his murderous green eyes wide and staring above his red veil.

The sea that held his rapt attention lapped fitfully at the rocks, which were less jagged down by the shore, some even resembling columns and arches. One rock in particular was of interest to Arachnae. Or rather, a _stone_. But the tide was not far enough out yet, she must wait. Her eyes scanned the horizon, but there was no sign of the _Stormchaser_ , Duadh's ship. He and Irmilla had gone north, to meet a courier from the Shadow Library. There was information that Arachnae required, to adequately perform her task, ancient lore that could not be imparted in mere dreams. She did not expect them back for days yet… but looked anyway, just in case. In the meantime, she decided to tutor the boys a little, in antiquity…

"Do you see how smooth and shaped some of these rocks are?" Arachnae asked. Ranim and Zaradin glanced at the boulders, then at each other, and nodded, uncertainly. "That is because they are the remnants of an ancient city of the Age of Legends. 'M'Jinn,' it was called. It was the second largest city after the capital, Paaran Disen, the environs noted for uncertain and inclement weather. Azille Narof, founder of the pathetic Red Ajah, was born there, as was Goaeur Rantoel, insane Companion to the Dragon."

At mention of the Dragon, Zaradin raised his veil and spat upon the shingles.

Arachnae chuckled. "Its people were notorious for their foul mouths, chaotic natures and unusual behaviour," she continued. "M'Jinn went over to the Shadow in the early months of the War of Power. Ultimately, the forces of Light destroyed it, in a terrible battle that lasted for an entire year."

"How do you know all this, Dread Mistress?" enquired Ranim.

"Because I studied hard as a novice in the White Tower, instead of mooning over the handsome younglings in the practice yard!" Arachnae cackled loudly. Ranim and Zaradin eyed her, a touch cautiously. "But there remains one thing of interest about M'Jinn… it was the site of a Portal Stone. And there it is."

A dull-white, stone column became evident above the receding waves, its curved surface carved with faded symbols. On cue, a Myrddraal leading a dozen Trollocs and a Draghkar scout came marching down the beach. They came to a halt in front of Arachnae and stood, waiting. The Trollocs and Draghkar watched her with open fear, the Myrddraal with the usual loathing. It had a large raven perched upon its shoulder, which opened its cruel beak and cawed loudly. Ranim and Zaradin eyed the Shadowspawn with wary contempt, Arachnae with cold expectation.

" _You know what you have to do, Halfman?_ " Arachnae asked the Myrddraal, speaking the Shadow Tongue.

The Myrddraal nodded curtly. " _Observe and report back,_ " it hissed, its voice like foul air escaping a grave.

" _Good._ " Arachnae's dark, ancient eyes narrowed. She pointed a bony finger at the dead Myrddraal impaled on the stakes above them. " _Fail in your task and I guarantee that you will come to envy_ them _._ "

* * *

' _As changeable as the weather in M'Jinn.'_

\- ancient saying of the Age of Legends

 **Chapter Four * The Dream**

Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, woke as the dawn light filtered through the barred window of her cell, and stretched luxuriantly. For the first time since her capture, she felt content, despite the fact that she was lying on a thin rush mat in a dingy prison chamber, awaiting an unknown fate… She wondered why? Then, she recalled the vivid dream… seeing Naythan again, and what had ensued from their meeting. She smiled, humming to herself softly, gazing up at the stone ceiling. _That_ had been no ordinary dream! The first time with Naythan had hurt a little, for all that he had been extremely gentle and tender, the pleasure easily outweighing the pain. But this time… it had been perfect, passionate, like something out of the ancient romantic stories that Shrina was always reading.

Ellyth frowned, darker thoughts intruding upon her temporary happiness. Shrina… they had said that they were going to execute her, Jabal too, that horrid girl who ruled over these ignoble people had seemed quite intent on summary justice for her fallen armsmen, implacable in her resolve.

"Please come for us soon, Naythan," Ellyth whispered, "we need you, my love…"

"What was that, barbarian? Did you say something?"

Ellyth glanced to her right. The young Sharan woman, Dara, was sitting upright on her rush mat, regarding her with dark, knowing eyes. Yawning delicately behind a serpent-ringed hand, Ellyth sat up too. She was clad in her silk shift, somewhat rumpled, but Dara wore only a simple cotton loin-cloth, a band of the same fabric stretched tightly across her breasts. They did not seem to go in for shifts in Shara, or Co'dansin, rather. Well, it was a hot place, by all accounts.

"Good morning, Dara," Ellyth murmured to her cellmate, "did you sleep well?"

"Oh, _I_ did. I am not so sure about _you_ , Ellyth."

Ellyth's feathery brows drew down slightly. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

Dara smiled slyly. "Why, you were sighing and moaning in your sleep, my dear barbarian; having a nice time, by the sound of it!" Dara rolled her eyes lewdly.

Ellyth blushed furiously.

Dara grinned. "So… who is he? What's his name?"

Ellyth opened her mouth, the words; 'I don't know what you mean!' forming on her lips, but the Oath she had sworn precluded her from saying them. Her mouth snapped shut.

"Not going to tell me, eh?" Dara winked.

"Stop looking at me like that!" Ellyth muttered.

"Like what?"

"Salaciously! Honestly, Dara, you are as bad as Shrina!" Ellyth sighed. "And if you _must_ know, his name is 'Naythan.'"

"Your Warder? I had no idea. Then I envy you, barbarian, for dreaming of your man. And such a pleasant dream, too!" It was Dara's turn to sigh. "It is long since I dreamed of Hamadi, longer still since I saw him, was with him."

Ellyth leaned forward to pat Dara on the arm in commiseration. They had already swapped partial life-stories, there being little else to do in the cell. Hamadi was Dara's lover, also Ayyad, for all that he was a man. Apparently, amongst the channelers of Shara, in order to preserve their bloodlines the Ayyad lived apart from the general population in separate villages, and only bred with each other. The women were free to come and go, in service to the state which they clandestinely controlled, but the menfolk were kept cloistered and uneducated, used solely as breeding stock. Worst of all, when they began to channel or reached the age of twenty-one, they were killed.

Young Hamadi had avoided this fate with Dara's help, but only just. The two of them had been selected to breed together, but a strange, forbidden thing had happened – they had fallen in love. When Hamadi began to touch the Source at the age of nineteen, they had kept it a secret for as long as possible, but eventually had been found out. They had been forced to flee their village, a step ahead of pursuing, vengeful Ayyad women. Only Dara, in a panicked state, somehow managing to open a Travelling gate, had saved them. But the land they involuntarily came to and could not escape was far from a friendly place, as Ellyth herself had discovered. Some months ago, they had been captured by the Hawx, had been awaiting their fate ever since.

"Well, enough talk of men. They are pleasant enough company at times, and an enjoyable diversion in bed, but nothing but trouble otherwise!" Dara reached for something behind her mat and Ellyth's heart sunk. She repressed a groan. Dara then produced a stones board, the pieces all set out, ready for a game. "Come, barbarian Aes Sedai, let us play."

The gaoler, whilst brusque, was not as rude as most of the other Hawx, he never called Ellyth a 'witch' and when she had asked him for a stones board, surprisingly, he had one. Even more surprisingly, he had been willing to lend it to them. How Ellyth regretted it! Dara had never heard of the game, but had learnt to play with ease… and had soon mastered it. Now, she beat Ellyth four times out of five. Ellyth had always considered herself to be a skilful player of stones, father had taught her much about strategy, and to be beaten so consistently by someone who was essentially a beginner was aggravating in the extreme! Dara's enthusiasm for playing endless games of stones at all hours was beginning to wear on Ellyth's nerves… but there was little else to do in their drab cell.

As Dara set her first stone, Ellyth leaned forward, lowering her voice cautiously. You never knew who might be listening… "Dara?"

"Yes, Ellyth?"

"The dream, last night… it was more than just a dream, yes? My Naythan, he is not as ordinary men; he has certain… abilities. One is that he is able to walk in dreams." Dara raised a sceptical eyebrow. "It is true!" Ellyth exclaimed, "I would not be able to tell you this, were it not!"

Dara nodded sagely. "Ah yes, this binding oath that you Aes Sedai take, to speak no word that is not truth." She grinned, the tattoos on her face twisting. "Believe me, barbarian, were I not able to lie, I would be dead many times over!"

"Yes, well, Naythan visited me last night…"

"He most certainly did! His 'visit' woke me up!"

Ellyth blushed again. "Hush, Dara! I told him where we were, described this awful place." Ellyth gazed at Dara with her dark, perceptive eyes, feeling hope for the first time in days. "He will come for me, for all of us. We shall be rescued, ere long."

Ellyth's voice held conviction, but Dara did not seem to be convinced by it. "What can one man do against many?" demanded the Ayyad woman, fatalistically. "Do not think I should not like to be freed from this dire island, reunited with my Hamadi, but the Hawk-barbarians are many, well-armed and organised, unlike the other savages of this insane land… what can one man do against them?"

Ellyth smiled confidently. "I told you, Naythan is no ordinary man. He has saved my life on many an occasion. He will doubtless think of something."

"Well, I certainly hope so." Dara eyed Ellyth searchingly for a long moment, then shrugged. "It is your move," she pointed-out.

* * *

Thaeus and Feir made their stealthy way through what she had told him was called the 'Ghost Forest,' the Gholam trailing along behind. They were back-tracking the Madman that they had encountered, to his point of origin. Heading back towards the north, Thaeus thought, though was unsure. He was equally unsure _how_ Feir was following the Madman's tracks, he could make out no sign of them himself. He accounted himself accomplished at woodcraft, father had taught him all of his considerable skill, but the trail was old, the grass and ferns held little clue as to the Madman's progress. This did not seem to bother Feir, she stalked along, pale eyes scanning the ground ahead, occasionally muttering to herself in the Old Tongue. At one point she paused, crouched smoothly and bent back the leaf of a bramble bush. There was a small, dark stain on it.

"See," Feir whispered, "Myrddraal blood. We're getting close."

Thaeus blinked. "How can you backtrack the Madman?" he whispered back, "I see no sign…"

"Oh, there are signs and there are signs, milord. My eyes aren't quite like yours, I can see all sorts of things with them… the fading heat of his footsteps, for example." Feir smiled crookedly. "I'm rather looking forward to this! I've never actually seen Shadowspawn before, except for the Gholam, and it doesn't really count…"

"I _am_ spawn of the Shadow," hissed the Gholam, which had also crouched, to sniff at the blood, "though suborned by your accursed father…"

"Don't be rude about Father, Gholam! You were sent to kill him and he let you live, didn't he? Why, you're lucky he didn't _dissect_ you!"

"Shh!" shushed Thaeus, "you said they were close; they might hear you!"

"Oh, I doubt they're capable of hearing anything anymore," Feir commented airily, though she did lower her voice, "those who encounter a Madman don't tend to survive the experience…"

They rose, and continued on their way. The surrounding forest was looking familiar to Thaeus; he wondered why. Then, they reached the clearing, and he understood.

"This is where we arrived!" Thaeus whispered. Feir glanced at him, wordlessly. Cautiously, they pushed the ferns aside and entered the clearing. The smell of smoke hung heavy in the air, and they could see why. The wrecked hull of the _Little Watcher_ , the small ship transported here, had been burned, its charred ribs jutting upwards, black and skeletal. Thaeus eyed the wreck sadly; this fine craft had saved them from a storm, been their home for a while, but now it was no more. That was not all; the corpses of a dozen Trollocs lay scattered about the clearing in various attitudes of death, their skin and fur showing clear sign of fiery destruction.

Feir examined them with interest. "Look, this one has horns!" she exclaimed, "and the one over here, a beak! They certainly are _ugly_ …"

Movement from one of the bodies and Thaeus drew his sword and leapt forward, putting a protective arm around Feir. His wounded shoulder protested, but was definitely getting better. It was the burned corpse of the Myrddraal, lying on its back, still twitching… and minus its head. Its Thakan'dar-forged sword was sunk point first into the ground nearby, had evidently been used to decapitate it.

Feir glanced up at Thaeus, amused. "Just what I need," she murmured, "a big, strong man to protect me!" She slipped out of his warding embrace and went to examine the Myrddraal.

Feeling a little foolish, knowing that it was more likely Feir protecting _him_ in this dread place, Thaeus joined her. "Why would the Madman take its head?" he wondered.

Feir shrugged. "He was _mad_. Who knows what motivates the insane ones? Perhaps he wanted to keep it as some sort of gruesome trophy? Or have conversations with it... Gholam! Come here!" The Gholam had been lingering at the edge of the clearing, it came over and looked at them with its dark, soul-less eyes. "You may feed if you wish."

The Gholam pulled a disgusted face and shook its head. "The Beastmen have been dead too long, their blood sickening to me," it complained.

"Well, what about the Fade? It's still alive… sort of."

"The blood of Myrddraal is not to my taste," refused the Gholam, fastidiously. It eyed Thaeus hungrily. "Of course, if you have tired of the company of this human, I could always-"

"Hush, Gholam! Don't be churlish!" Thaeus regarded the Gholam warily, his grip tightening on his sword-hilt. Feir noticed. "Don't worry, Thaeus, even if I wasn't around, it can't harm you. Can you, Gholam?" The Gholam scowled and shook its head reluctantly.

"Why not?" Thaeus asked.

"Because Father _reconditioned_ it, of course!" Feir smiled wickedly. "Say your Oath, Gholam!"

"Must I, Mistress?" whined the Gholam.

"Yes… do it!"

The Gholam sighed gustily, then spoke rapidly; "I may not harm a human or Ogier except in protection of the existence of my Mistress, or in protection of my own existence. All manner of Shadow-wrought and Friends of the Dark are to be exterminated whenever feasible. I am a silly Gholam. I am a stupid Djinn. I went to assassinate Chaime Kufer Mors, Aes Sedai, Constructor of the Lightborn, but became trapped in a bottle instead. Praise the Creator. Shai'tan is a fool." Feir laughed delightedly, the odd yipping sound echoing in the clearing. The Gholam scowled. "All hail the Great Lord of the Dark, down with the Creator, you are a harlot!" it added, glaring at Feir. Her laughter redoubled.

Thaeus blinked. He rather got the impression that these two strange companions had been out on their own together too long. Their relationship, the way they related to each other, was certainly unusual. But it was good to know that the Gholam couldn't harm him unless he tried to harm it. Which he certainly would not, he was well aware that it could tear him to pieces, if it so chose…

Thaeus opened his mouth to ask what they should do now, but the bushes nearby abruptly parted and a bat-winged, pale-skinned creature stepped out. A Draghkar! Thaeus recalled them attacking the ship, a whole flock of the vile creatures… He stepped forward, blade at the ready, but it was too late – the Draghkar opened its red-lipped, fanged mouth, and began to _sing_. The sound was all-encompassing, hypnotic… Thaeus was distantly aware that he had dropped his sword, that he was stumbling towards the foul creature's embrace, willing to have his soul sucked from him… and then Feir stepped smartly between them, and slapped the Draghkar hard across the face. Its song immediately ceased; it looked surprised.

"Shut-up, you! Are you alright, Thaeus?" Feir sounded concerned.

Shaking his head to clear it of the last vestiges of the Draghkar's deadly song, Thaeus retrieved his sword. "I'm fine!"

"Quick, Gholam, grab it before it flaps off!"

When next Thaeus looked, the Gholam was behind the Draghkar, gripping it in an inescapable embrace, its wings pressed to its back, arms pinned to its side. Feir regarded the captive with satisfaction. Then, she growled something to it in a harsh, crude language. She drew her bronze blade, waved it in front of the Draghkar's face, then said something else. The Draghkar blinked its large, pale eyes, and nodded hesitantly.

"What speech is that?" Thaeus asked Feir, "I don't recognise it."

"Oh, it is the Shadow Tongue, a nasty language. Father taught it to me, along with the Low and one or two others."

"What did you say to it?"

"I told it that its horrid singing doesn't affect me or the Gholam, but if it tries that again, I'll cut out its tongue."

"Oh."

Feir glanced hesitantly at Thaeus. "Um… the Gholam and I are going to take the Draghkar into the woods and ask it one or two questions; why it's here, are there any more Shadowfilth lurking about, that sort of thing… I may have to be rather _persuasive_ so you probably won't want to participate…"

Thaeus frowned. "I used to be a Child of Light, I've seen Darkfriends tortured before," he pointed-out. Only once, though, and it had sickened him.

"I don't know what a Child of Light is, but I'll take your word for it…" Feir put a hand on Thaeus' shoulder, smiled at him. "Thaeus, if we're to be lovers, I'd like you to have a good opinion of me. You might not if you see what I do to the Draghkar. You understand?"

Thaeus thought about it, then nodded. They kissed. The Gholam made an impatient, vaguely disgusted sound.

Feir turned away and glared at it. "Damn-it, Gholam!"

At which, to Thaeus' surprise, the Gholam opened its mouth and in an entirely different voice from its habitual sinister tones, said; " _you should not say that word, Young Mistress!_ " Feir laughed again. Thaeus stared. The Gholam had sounded a bit like one of the Aielmen, only in mature, more cultivated tones.

Feir patted the captured Draghkar on the head. "Come along, vile thing, let's find out how you got here…"

"Oh, I can answer _that_ ," Thaeus exclaimed, and pointed his sword at a greyish column covered in arcane symbols, half-hidden by vegetation, projecting from the ground next to the burned wreck of the ship.

Feir glanced at it, and nodded. "Mmm. The Portal Stone. The 'Everstone' the locals call it. That's how Father and I got here too." She grinned. "This is certainly a busy little clearing; someone should build an inn here, to cater to all the various creatures that are coming and going!"

Thaeus chuckled at the idea, then, sheathing his sword, paced over to the wreck and prized a blackened board from it. It would make a serviceable enough spade…

"What are you doing?" Feir wondered.

Thaeus smiled mysteriously. "While you are questioning the prisoner, I have something to occupy me." He nodded at the tree beneath which the Horn of T'oph was buried. "You _do_ like surprises, don't you?"

* * *

Jabal lay, seemingly alone in the stockade, unable to rise… worrying about Renn. Something to do with this accursed place seemed to mask the Bond between his Aes Sedai wife and he, Jabal had not been able to sense her location ever since he awoke in this prison. Aebel and Blaek reported that they couldn't detect Shrina either… it was maddening, not knowing where they were, what was happening to them. These peculiar Shorebound who had taken him captive and stolen his sword, they did not seem to care for Aes Sedai. He had overheard them speaking of 'witches,' as the Whitecloaks did.

In the night outside; torchlight approaching. Jabal tensed, ignoring the pain of his wounds. This would be where they found out whether the young Sharan's plan held water. Strange, to encounter one of his kind, so far from their mutual homes. Jabal had been to Shara enough times to be well aware what a tattooed face meant – but had thought that only women channelers had them. He had never seen a male Ayyad before…

The torches were held by Kor and a dozen of his men. The Hawx Blood nobleman had shed his robes; all wore buckskins and war-paint, evidently they were preparing to go to the mainland on one of their patrols. Kor peered through a gap in the stout logs that made up the walls of the stockade, scowling. Clearly, he had expected to find four prisoners here, not one. "Where are the others?" he demanded.

"Your mother was a cheap dockside hussy!" Jabal responded, weakly.

Kor's scowl intensified. "Open the gate!" he shouted. One of his men pulled back a heavy iron bolt and the door of the stockade was swung open. Kor entered, crouching, Jabal's short, ivory-hilted sword held in one hand, a gold-pommelled knife in the other. "Where are they, Atha'an Miere?" he hissed, dangerously.

Jabal grinned insolently. "And your father was a one-legged Shorebound whelk-salesman!" he added.

Kor held the blade of his knife to Jabal's throat, thought about it, then reconsidered. He withdrew the knife, leaving a spot of blood on Jabal's neck. He smiled nastily. "The pale-haired witch, she claims to be your wife. Is this true?"

Jabal declined to answer, but his dark eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I think it _is_ true. How would you like it if I had her brought here and put to the torment? She would die by inches, right before your eyes…"

It was Jabal's turn to scowl. "Very well," he growled, "the others have escaped."

"I can see that, Sea Folk scum! _How_ did they escape?"

"One of our own let them out. We have infiltrated your island, my men are everywhere!"

Kor snorted contemptuously. "I seriously doubt that. Why did you not go with them?"

Jabal sighed. "I am injured, too weak to stand. They could not carry me, I would only have slowed them down. So, I remain here, to taunt you further! Your sister was-"

"Silence!" Kor turned to his men and barked some orders in the Old Tongue, which Jabal understood but poorly. Something about pursuit, perhaps? Several of the scouts hared off into the night. Kor turned back to Jabal, considering. Then, he gave another order in the same ancient language, and two of his men entered the stockade. Each took an end of Jabal's straw mat and lifted; he was unable to repress a groan as his wounds protested the movement. They carried him outside, Kor following. Jabal's eyes were on the gate of the stockade – would they close and lock it? The success or failure of the escape plan rather depended on this.

"Where are you taking me?" Jabal demanded.

"To the infirmary," Kor answered, "your wounds need seeing to."

"What is the point of nursing me back to health if you are just going to kill me?"

Kor smiled coldly. "We want you to be able to walk unaided to the scaffold, of course. Carrying a man to his execution is ignoble."

"Oh? And what of the sharks?" Jabal enquired, "you said you were going to feed us to them…"

"I was being figurative." Kor shrugged. "There are no sharks hereabouts… the lionfish ate them all!"

Jabal blinked. Lionfish… his name and his nemesis! "Just as well," he commented with some bravado, "I have encountered sharks before and they did not live to regret it! It would have ended with _me_ eating _them_ , not the other way around!"

Kor laughed harshly. "I almost _like_ you, Atha'an Miere! You are a bold fellow!" Then his expression sobered, darkened. "But you killed one of my scouts and for that you must pay with your life."

"I was trying to kill _you_ , remember?" Jabal muttered.

"I do. But I avoided your thrown blade with ease. Young Apat did not." Kor frowned. "He was a good tracker, but always was too slow on his feet."

As they carried him away, Jabal glanced back at the stockade, the door to which now hung open. "Good luck, Swordbrothers," he whispered.

* * *

Renn sat on a rush mat in her cell, worrying about Jabal. She couldn't sense him. That big metal tower on the hill clearly masked the Bond as well as blocking her off from the Source. It was maddening, not knowing where he was, if he was alright… and they were going to execute him! Shrina too. Renn did not have a particularly violent temperament, her temper was of the slow-burning kind… but she could feel herself getting angry now. If those nasty Hawx harmed her husband or her friend, then by the Hand of the Creator, she would find a way to pull their rotten castle down around their ears!

"Penny for your thoughts, deary?" asked her cellmate. Renn glanced up, looking at the old woman reclining on the mat opposite her. She had a lined, care-worn face, but with fine bone-structure that suggested she must have been quite a beauty in her youth. Her hair was long and silver, intricately plaited, her skin quite pale. Dark, knowing eyes peered at Renn. She wore a simple grey dress and sandals. Renn, in brown silks, was not looking forward to having to change into one of these. All of the prisoners wore them.

"You don't _have_ a penny, Malissa," Renn commented levelly, "but I'll tell you for free if you like… I was thinking about my husband. Well, worrying about him…"

"Don't get yourself into a state, pigeon!" chided Malissa, the ancient Wilder. "The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills." The old woman claimed to be Aes Sedai, but wasn't. She had never been tested, never held the Oath Rod. She lacked the ageless features that one associated with Sisters. "I've had a husband or two over the years," Malissa went on to comment, "about seven, now that I think of it… one loses count, after a while."

Renn stared. Malissa was unremarkable in some ways, but in others… why, she claimed to be over five-hundred years old! Renn had doubted her at first, but the old Wilder had no particular reason to lie to her… no Aes Sedai of the White Tower had ever lived that long, to the best of her knowledge, which was considerable. At least, not since the Trolloc Wars… when the Sisterhood had begun to swear on the Oath Rod. Renn was starting to have her suspicions about that particular _ter'angreal_ …

"Which of them was your favourite husband?" Renn asked, not so much because she cared, but more to pass the time and take her mind off Jabal.

"Oh, number three, most definitely – Davith. He was just a little fellow, but with the ardour of a man twice his size. Oh, he was insatiable!" Malissa cackled.

Renn blushed. "Malissa! Really!"

"Don't be a prude, Renny. You're a married woman – you know perfectly well what men are good for!" Malissa made a lewd gesture.

Renn shifted uncomfortably on her mat. Their cell was small and rather cold, though the gaoler had at least supplied extra blankets, if grudgingly. "I am Aes Sedai," Renn pointed-out, "and of the Brown Ajah. My mind is meant to focus upon higher things." An image of she and Jabal on their wedding night popped unbidden into her head and she blushed again.

"Well, I'm Aes Sedai too," Malissa responded, "but it doesn't stop me from enjoying life's little consolations." She frowned. "Though I _am_ a bit old for that sort of thing these days," she allowed.

"Are you _really_ over five-hundred, Malissa?" Renn asked, "I don't mean to doubt you, but…"

"I was born in the Year without Sun," Malissa stated, definitively, "why, I'm so old that I even remember when the Sea Folk first started coming here, to trade. They didn't stay long, mind you – it's not easy, doing business with folk who only want to kill and eat you!" She sighed. "I'm not the oldest Sister, either. Not by a long shot. Nor the most powerful, at that. But I have a few tricks up my sleeve, they've kept me alive this long…" She glanced around at the bare stone walls of their cell, and sighed again. "A pity that it should all end like this…"

"What are they going to do with us?" Renn asked, fatalistically.

"The Hawx?" Malissa scowled. "What do ignorant savages usually do with witches?" She left it at that, neither wished to dwell on their probable fate. There was silence for a long moment, then; "tell me again about this White Tower of yours," Malissa requested, eagerly.

Renn groaned. " _Again?_ "

* * *

Blaek lay buried in the sand that floored the stockade, a long, hollow straw gripped firmly between his teeth. He was breathing through it, with some difficulty. He didn't think that Ayyad's plan would work, but it had been better than doing nothing… his eyes were full of sand, as were his ears, but he had been able to make out the sound of voices earlier. Now, there was silence. Blaek could stand it no longer, lying there, helpless. Cautiously, he raised his head to the surface, blinking the sand out of his eyes. The stockade was empty… and the door was open! The Sharan youth's plan seemed to have succeeded, thus far…

Blaek freed himself from the shallow pit in which he had lain hidden, brushing sand from his ragged clothes. He spat the straw out, scanning the surroundings of the stockade. The night-time beach seemed deserted, no sign of any guards… this might actually work!

Blaek looked around until he located another straw, projecting up from the sand. Grinning mischievously, he put his finger over it. Nothing happened at first, then Aebel's head erupted form where it had been buried, followed by his shoulders. He coughed and spluttered.

"Not so loud, brother!" Blaek hissed warningly.

Aebel glared at him, whilst wiping sand from his face. "I couldn't breathe," he complained, "what did you do?"

"Nothing," replied Blaek, innocently.

Aebel eyed him suspiciously, then sat up, glancing around the otherwise empty stockade, brushing sand from himself. "Where is Jabal?" he asked.

"They must have taken him," Blaek answered.

The Twins frowned; an identical expression on identical faces. For the plan to work, one of them had to stay behind, to make their captors think that the others had escaped. It had to be Jabal, who was too weak to stand, much less walk… but they did not have to like it. In any case, Jabal had insisted that it be him over their objections, even ordering them to leave him. Since he was senior Warder, if only by a year, they had to obey.

"We will rescue him…" whispered Aebel.

"…along with Shrina and the others," whispered Blaek.

The Twins looked around. "Where is the Sharaman?" they asked, at the same time. At which, the sand over in the corner erupted and Ayyad emerged, sitting upright. He took the straw from his mouth and blinked at them. Then, he noticed the open door and grinned, white teeth flashing in his dark, tattooed face. He muttered something in his odd, liquid language, rose without bothering to dust himself off and slipped outside. Blaek helped Aebel to rise, his brother's broken arm hampering him somewhat, and they followed silently. Beyond the beach, the castle of the Hawx loomed against the night sky, numerous banners depicting gold and silver hawks in flight, fluttering.

The Twins looked at each other, thinking the same thing, as they so often did. First, they would need weapons. Hopefully, they could get their swords back… Ayyad too was looking at the castle, but then he turned and glanced down the beach toward the sea, where several of the big war-canoes were pulled up on the sand. Clearly, he was in two minds as to what to do next – escape to the mainland, or try to rescue the others?

The decision was made for them. An alarm bell began to ring up on the battlements, soldiers could be seen running along the parapets and a voice cried; "prisoner escape!" The three of them ran for the canoes.

Blaek cursed, not wanting to leave but knowing they would be no good to Shrina if recaptured… they would get help, return for her and exact their revenge on these accursed Hawx! They reached the canoes, a couple of which were smaller than the others – one of them would suitably accommodate the three escapees. Blaek and Ayyad pushed it down toward the waves, while Aebel stood watch.

"Danger!" Aebel shouted.

Blaek whirled around, reaching for a sword that was not there. A half-dozen of the hawk-masked soldiers were running down the beach towards them, swords drawn. The Twins looked at each other. There was no time to launch the small canoe, the enemy would be upon them before they could make their escape… they would have to stand and fight. Blaek smiled grimly, Aebel smiled back. After days of enforced inactivity, the prospect of imminent violence was a welcome one. The soldiers in the masks moved well, obviously had martial training, and were attacking unarmed opponents. But they were facing Warders of the White Tower…

The leader, a red plume bobbing at the top of his steel hawk mask, engaged Blaek – he chopped downwards, two-handed, intending to split the escaped prisoner's skull. Blaek slapped his hands together, either side of the blade, abruptly halting its descent, then twisted the sword from the surprised soldier's grip, flipping it and catching it neatly by the hilt. Now their positions were reversed; Blaek was armed and his foe was not. The leader gaped for a moment – then, with a grunt of effort, Blaek took his head off with a powerful, double-handed blow. Two more soldiers closed on him from either side; he kicked one hard in the solar-plexus, a killing blow, and neatly disarmed the other before stabbing her in the heart.

Blaek turned to see Aebel giving a good account of himself, despite the broken arm. One soldier lay dead at his feet with a broken neck and he had retrieved their fallen blade and was duelling another soldier, one-handed. Blaek wondered whether to intervene but there was no need, Aebel whirled and cut the throat from his opponent in a welter of blood. There remained but one soldier… they turned.

Ayyad was kneeling in the surf, busily drowning their final enemy in the sea. His victim gave a last kick, then lay still. The Sharan youth rose and turned, ignoring the Twins and looking up at the castle with regret. "Dara," he said softly.

Loud shouts and war-cries as more soldiers came pouring out of the castle gates, at least a score of them. Too many to fight, even though they now had swords. With this in mind, Blaek glanced down at the weapon he had purloined from the guardr's leader. His dark eyes widened with surprise and delight. There was no Heron on the hilt or blade, but even so…

"This is Power-wrought!" Blaek exclaimed. The long, curved blade had unmistakeably been made by an Aes Sedai, long ago.

Aebel glanced down at his own sword. "This isn't," he stated, sounding disappointed. None of the other swords were either. Aebel gave Blaek an envious stare.

"Don't look at me like that, brother!" Blaek exclaimed, "you can use it too – we'll _share!_ "

"How does one share a sword?" Aebel demanded.

"You have it one day, I'll have it the next!"

"Fair enough."

Ayyad was eyeing them as though he thought they were mad. He made an impatient sound, pointed to the advancing enemy, then gestured at the canoe.

"I suppose we should go," suggested Aebel.

"Aye," agreed Blaek, "but we'll be back!"

They swiftly pushed the canoe out into the surf and leapt in, Blaek and Ayyad grabbing paddles. Digging the implements into the water, they set course for the mainland, a dark blur to the south, across a narrow strait. Aebel sat in the rear of the canoe, unable to paddle, and watched the enemy closely. "They're coming after us," he reported, "three of those war-canoes, crammed with soldiers."

Ayyad and Blaek redoubled their efforts, the canoe fairly flying through the water, but their pursuers, though in larger, heavier craft, had more men to paddle and began to gain on them. They clearly would not make it to safety before they were overhauled…

Abruptly, Ayyad sat upright and took a deep breath. He smiled. Blaek noted that he had stopped paddling and opened his mouth to object… but then, Ayyad turned, staring back at the pursuing war-canoes. Something in his black eyes gave Blaek pause. Something deadly. Ayyad stood, balancing easily in the rocking canoe. He stared at the closest war-canoe full of soldiers, which had drawn ahead of the other two. He muttered something that sounded threatening in his own, strange tongue, then raised a hand and pointed at the pursuing canoe. It promptly exploded, as did its unfortunate occupants, shattered wood and dismembered bodies flying high into the air. All that was left of the destroyed craft was boiling water and floating wreckage.

The Twins gaped, then eyed their canoe-mate warily. Ayyad ignored them, his attention on the other war-canoes, but they promptly abandoned their pursuit, turned and headed back to the Island with some speed. Ayyad grinned savagely, said something else in the Sharan language, then resumed his seat and began paddling again as though nothing untoward had happened.

Aebel and Blaek exchanged another wordless glance. They had a dangerous ally, it seemed… how long did they have before he went mad and killed them? But there were larger problems facing them. Their beloved Aes Sedai was yet a prisoner of savages, the dishonourable Hawx – what could they do about it? They were Gaidin, true; but even a Warder could accomplish little against overwhelming odds.

"Well?" enquired Aebel.

Blaek considered. "We need reinforcements," he stated, "and we don't know where Naythan Shieldman is…"

The Twins spoke reluctantly, at the same time; "we'd better find the Aiel."

* * *

Chassin squatted easily on the sand, leaning on one of his spears, watching Gerom build a hut. Gerom was an excellent scholar and binder of books, a deadly _algai'd'siswai_ … at least, he _had_ been, before he went mad – no doubt influenced by the atmosphere of this insane place as much as Ruon the Water Seeker's revelation – but when it came to hut-construction…

"You are doing it all wrong," Chassin pointed-out, "it will fall down."

Gerom glanced at him with his oddly meek eyes. He had added a cowl to his white robe, it was drawn down over his large head, shading his placid features. "It will not fall down, Chassin," he demurred softly, then swung the hammer inexpertly, missing the nail and hitting his thumb. He swore, and kicked the hut. The wooden wall collapsed under the impact, causing the other walls to also collapse. Fortunately there was not yet a roof, or this would have collapsed too.

"See?" commented Chassin, "it fell down."

Gerom surveyed the wreckage and sighed. "I will start again," he muttered.

"Cease this insanity, my brother!" cried Chassin, rising. He glared up at Gerom, having to crane his neck back some way in order to do so, as he usually did. "You are _not_ sworn to peace in battle! Who took you _G_ _ai'shain?_ No-one! So what if our ancestors served the Aes Sedai and would not lift a finger to defend themselves or their kin against an enemy – that is _their_ problem! What has it to do with _us?_ "

Gerom smiled sadly. "Nothing," he answered, "and also… everything."

It was Chassin's turn to swear. "You are madder than that cheese-eating lunatic over there!" he shouted.

Gen was sitting nearby. He had been collecting sea-shells all morning, and was arranging them in piles, according to size and hue. He looked up, blinking. "Do you be referring to me?" he enquired.

Chassin ignored him, focused on Gerom. "Take up the spear again, Knife-Brother," he urged, holding out one of his weapons. "You may have one of mine – here! You are a mighty warrior and we have need of you…"

Gerom shook his head. "I cannot do violence, my brother… my honour will not allow it."

Chassin stared at Gerom for a long moment, then spoke curtly; "then call me not 'brother' again, Gerom. If you will not aid us against these Hawx, then you are no knife-kin of mine. We are no longer near-brothers."

Gerom frowned. "As you wish, Chassin," he answered in his deep voice, "but you should know that-"

"Chassin! Gerom!" It was Manda, her cadin'sor dusty, sweat coating her fine features. She had clearly been running, and quite fast at that.

" _What?_ " snapped Chassin, "I am busy here, with this fool who thinks that-"

"It is Cohradin!" Manda interrupted breathlessly.

"What of him?" enquired Gerom.

"I cannot explain it! You must come and see!"

Curiously, Chassin and Gerom followed Manda out through the open gate and into the trees. Chassin glanced up at Gerom. Neither of them had ever been taken _Gai'shain_ in battle, they were too skilled at the Dance for that… it was strange beyond understanding to see the hulking former _Sovin Nai_ wearing the white. As they walked, Chassin tried one last time to talk sense into his friend.

"You were made for the Dance, Gerom, not for the carrying of water and the building of huts!" Chassin thought about it. "The building of poorly-constructed huts which fall down when you kick them!" he qualified. "You are a deadly fighter with spear, knife, and especially your hands! Do you not see how foolish you are being?"

At first, Chassin thought that Gerom would not answer, but then the big Aiel whispered; "I do not see my own foolishness, but I _do_ see the faces."

"What faces?" Chassin demanded, glancing around. There were no faces amongst the trees… was Gerom being analogous? He often did that...

Gerom answered sadly; "the faces of everyone I have ever waked. They visit me in my sleep. They torment me. They look upon me with accusation in their dead eyes. 'Why did you kill me?' they seem to say. I can bear it no longer. I was glad to break my spears. I will do no more violence, I will harm no-one, ever again."

"But you are _good_ at violence!" Chassin shouted, exasperated.

Gerom stopped walking, looming over Chassin, looking less placid now. Looking angry, even, an extremely rare occurrence for him. "I never wanted to be _algai'd'siswai!_ " Gerom shouted back, "when you and Cohradin chose to be Knife Hands, I did too, because you were my friends and it was what honour dictated. But secretly, I longed to be a _librarian!_ "

Manda had stopped walking too, turning to watch them. "A librarian?" she repeated. They ignored her.

Gerom continued in more even tones; "well, now my honour leads me in a different direction. Our ancestors, the Da'shain Aiel, broke the Covenant by taking up the spear in their own defence, and it falls to me to atone for it."

" _And_ Cohradin," said Manda, flatly. They looked at her.

"What do you mean?" Chassin asked.

Manda shrugged. "He has gone mad too. Though I suspect that he was never particularly sane in the first place." She beckoned. "I really do not have the words to explain it. Best you see for yourselves. He is just up here. Come!"

The land rose, the trees giving way to bushes and patches of fern. Manda stopped at the base of a small but steep hill and pointed, wordlessly. Chassin and Gerom stared.

Cohradin was there, but they did not recognise him at first. For one thing, he was unarmed… they had never seen the leader of the _Sovin Nai_ at Wet Sands unarmed before, it was said he even slept with a spear. For the other, he had shed his cadin'sor and was wearing a simple black robe, the mark of a _Da'tsang_ , a despised-one! Cohradin was currently labouring his way to the top of the hill, a heavy rock held in his arms. Gerom and Chassin watched him, their mouths open, speechless. Cohradin reached the top, dropped the rock, picked up another, then began to make his way back down.

"What is he _doing?_ " Chassin wondered.

Manda scowled. "What does it look like he is doing?" she muttered, "he is doing what he _always_ does – he is being an _idiot!_ "

Cohradin reached the bottom of the hill and dropped the rock. He looked sweaty and tired, was covered in dust, streaks of dirt on his heavily scarred face. He had clearly been engaged in the rock-carrying for some time. Cohradin grinned alarmingly at the other Shaido. "I see you, Chassin! I see you, Gerom! It seems that you are still sworn to peace in battle, my brother…" Cohradin eyed Gerom's white robe disparagingly, before turning to the Maiden; "I see you, Manda. You may cease curling your hair in the Wetlands fashion now, you have no more _toh_ to me."

Manda sighed with relief, dropped her spears and began braiding her warrior's tail.

Gerom glared at Cohradin. "What is _wrong_ with you, Cohradin?" he demanded, "what insanity is this?"

"And where are your spears and your knife?" Chassin added.

"I broke my spears, as did Gerom," Cohradin answered smugly. "My knife, I threw into the ocean, as did Gerom." His grin returned, twofold. "But unlike Gerom, I am no mere _Gai'shain!_ I am no longer red-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai,_ " he proclaimed proudly, "now I am red-eyed Cohradin of the… of the Da'tsangs!"

Gerom and Chassin eyed each other. Even by Cohradin's lamentable standards, this was absurd!

"You cannot be _Da'tsang_ , Cohradin!" Chassin cried, "to be a despised-one, a Wise One must declare you _Da'tsang!_ "

Cohradin glanced around himself in exaggerated fashion. "Do you see any Wise Ones hereabouts, Chassin? Is old Sadora here? Thankfully not! In their absence, I have declared myself to be _Da'tsang_!" He eyed Gerom accusingly. "You thought that you could salvage your honour by putting on the white, Gerom? But see – my honour is greater than yours! Only by wearing the black robe of a despised-one and engaging in useless and debilitating labour for the rest of my short and miserable life can I make restitution for the enormous crime of our ancestors in breaking the Covenant! I have no more _toh_ to the Aes Sedai, for I am now... _Da'tsang!_ " Cohradin picked up another large rock, hefting it in his arms.

Gerom scowled darkly. Chassin had never seen him lose his temper, but he seemed on the verge of it now… "You speak with pride and arrogance, Cohradin!" growled Gerom, "as though this were some contest of honour, and you the winner! As if being _Da'tsang_ were… were…" Words failed him, which they did not often. "I have no time for this foolishness," Gerom snarled, "I have _chores!_ " With that, the large Aiel turned and strode back into the forest, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

"You are being _ridiculous,_ Cohradin!" Chassin shouted, "you _always_ take things too far!" The self-declared despised-one ignored him, turning away and lugging the heavy rock back up the hill. Chassin and Manda watched him awhile, then turned to each other.

"What do we do now?" demanded Manda, "this place is driving everyone mad! Are we to be next?"

Chassin shook his head. "I care not how my ancestors lived, or what crimes they committed. I will not give up my spears and knives for anybody, not even Aes Sedai!"

"Nor I!"

Chassin frowned. "We need the Nightwatcher. Only he can talk sense into Gerom, and possibly even Cohradin." He eyed Manda. "I have sworn to the Roofmistress, Ysmet Mitsobar, that I will go with the Gleeman and the others to investigate this Isle of the Spire, to try to discover where the Aes Sedai and their Warders are being held…"

The Bosun and some of his sailors had returned with the longboat that morning. It was a fairly large craft, bigger than the boat they had used at _Vron'cor's_ Father's Hold to escape to the ship, but Chassin was not looking forward to travelling in it, voyaging over the disconcerting waves of the vast ocean. But he had given his word, and besides, he did not want to stay here, where Gerom had gone mad, and Cohradin had gone madder! It was all the fault of that troublesome Tomanelle, the _Duadhe Mahdi'in_ Ruon – how Chassin wished that he had waked the fool before he could reveal the dark truth of their dishonour!

Manda was nodding. "You go with the sailormen and the foolish Gleeman, Chassin, I will find the Nightwatcher." She smiled crookedly. "I am a better tracker than you, in any case. You would only get lost amongst the trees, and then have to be rescued!"

"I would not!" Chassin snapped.

While they were making their plans, Cohradin had come back down the hill. He dropped his rock and picked up another. He looked exhausted.

Manda eyed Cohradin with contempt. "I have changed my mind about you, Cohradin," she called out, "you are _not_ a pig. A pig has more sense than you do!"

Cohradin grinned. "I know I am not a pig, Maiden," he answered, before declaring pridefully; "I am _Da'tsang!_ "

Chassin watched Cohradin begin to labour back up the hill with his heavy burden, and sighed. "You had best go," he told Manda.

Manda nodded, then surprised Chassin by leaning down and embracing him. "May you always find water and shade, Chassin," she whispered in his ear, before straightening, retrieving her spears and running swiftly into the forest to the south.

"May you always find water and shade, Manda," Chassin muttered, watching her go, wondering if he would see her again…

* * *

As the dawning sun intruded through the light-well above, N'aethan opened his cobalt eyes and smiled. There was perhaps a touch of smugness to the smile, a hint of self-satisfaction, but mostly it was a smile of pure contentment.

" _Well… that was different,_ " N'aethan muttered, in the High. Different… and undeniably pleasant. N'aethan was no stranger to sex, either with the more adventurous Aes Sedai or the Da'shain'mai, and sometimes that sex occurred in unusual locations. Beneath a waterfall, in the back of an armoured jo-car, up a tree. At her insistence, he had once made rather nervous love to Karella Sedai, in the cockpit of a speeding hoverfly! But never before had he experienced such pleasure in _Tel'aran'rhiod._ It had been wonderful, sensual, arousing… but the object of his affections was yet a prisoner of ruthless savages, it would seem.

N'aethan's smile faded. Well, he would have to do something about that… "I am coming for you, Ellythia Sedai," he growled, in the Vulgar. He rose from the floor and padded from his old bedroom, sword in one hand, boots in the other.

Mitsu glanced at him darkly as he entered the sitting room. She still occupied the same sung-wood armchair, small feet up on the sung-wood stool, bared blade resting across her knees. She didn't seem to have moved all night. "Why do you have your sword drawn, Chami?" she demanded. "Did I not say I would keep watch?"

N'aethan grinned, dropped the boots and assumed a two-handed duelling stance. "Defend yourself, Anchovy!" he shouted.

Mitsu's eyes narrowed; at once she was out of the chair, gliding towards him, blade sweeping for his neck. N'aethan parried, struck, blocked, parried again. She was good, very good – for a human. But he was Lightborn, and it was all over in seven passes.

Mitsu glared at him, wringing a stinging hand, from which her weapon had been wrenched by a skilful envelopment. Her Heron-mark blade lay amongst some cushions in the corner. The tip of N'aethan's Power-wrought sword rested lightly against her throat.

N'aethan inclined his head to her. "You are not bad," he allowed, then; "do you yield?"

"I yield to no man!" Mitsu snapped, but then surprised him by smiling wryly. "But you are _not_ a man, you are a Chami, so yes I do!"

N'aethan removed his blade from Mitsu's neck and sheathed it with a deft motion, while she went to retrieve her weapon. Feren stumbled out of Big Brother's bedroom, yawning hugely. His shirt hung open, N'aethan noted that there was a deal of hair on his broad chest, which seemed to extend in a line down over his stomach…

"What was that noise?" Feren asked, "did someone drop some pots and pans?"

Mitsu sheathed her blade, holding it in her hands, and responded almost cheerfully; "yes, Gardener, there was an accident in the kitchen – the stupid Chami is to blame!"

Feren blinked at her uncertainly, then realised that he was half-dressed. Blushing, he hastily began to button his shirt.

N'aethan eyed him curiously. "Sleep well, Feren?"

"Yes thank you, honoured Lightborn."

"Dream about anything?"

"The Great Trees. Ogier always dream of the Great Trees."

"Oh. Anything else?"

"No, not really."

N'aethan turned to Mitsu. "And what about you, Anchovy? What do you dream of?"

Mitsu smiled coldly. "Those I have killed, in the course of my duty. In my dreams, I usually kill them again, just to make sure! I also dream of The Lady – she whom the Oathbreakers call 'Death.'" She shrugged. "And sometimes… my sister."

"You have a sister? So do I, it would seem. Where is she now? Back in Seanchan?"

"I know not. I have not seen her in a long time, not since we were children." Mitsu frowned. "In truth, she is not really my sister anymore."

"Why not?" enquired Feren, who had been following the exchange with his customary curiosity.

"Because she is Damane!" Mitsu snapped, "a leashed-one!"

N'aethan blinked. "Shrina Sedai told me about them," he commented, "it seems like a poor way for one human to treat another…"

"What do you know of it, Chami?" Mitsu demanded angrily, "less than nothing! Those who channel, the Marath'damane, they are evil! They broke the world! It was to atone for the shame to my family that I joined the Fists of Heaven as soon as they would have me. Later, I was selected for training as a Bloodknife – a great honour. The Empress herself – might she live forever – presented me with my blood-ring… which your Aes Sedai _stole!_ "

"Well," said N'aethan placatingly, "I suspect that these Hawx have it now… perhaps if you ask them nicely-"

"Be silent, Chami! Aes Sedai cannot be trusted! When the High Prince and first Emperor, Luthair Paendrag Mondwin, brought his armies to Seanchan to impose order, he found an unhappy land where those calling themselves Aes Sedai ruled over the people as tyrants!"

"Isn't your precious Empress something of a tyrant?" N'aethan asked innocently, "and by all accounts, Artur Hawkwing was no stranger to tyranny either…"

"Hah!" shouted Mitsu, "you seek to anger me further by insulting those I revere! Well, it will not work, Chami… just wait until I take you back to Seanchan and present you at court, in chains – you will keep a civil tongue in your head then, or become fatally familiar with the Tower of Ravens!"

N'aethan was unimpressed by this and was thinking of some further choice insults for the rulers of Seanchan, past and present, when Feren intervened.

"Um… this is all very well, but hadn't we better go?" Feren suggested, thick fingers buttoning up his coat.

"Oh, alright then," N'aethan muttered, sitting on the floor and pulling his boots on. He nodded toward the door of Middle Brother's room. "Go in there," he told Mitsu.

Mitsu eyed him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because Taw used a _sword,_ when he didn't just tear Shadow-wrought apart with his bare hands! He had all sorts of straps and harnesses, I recall… there should be one in there that fits you. Or do you want to keep lugging that blade around in your dainty hands?"

Mitsu frowned, but went into the indicated room. Presently, she came out again, a broad baldric stretched diagonally across her small breasts, the Power-wrought blade sheathed at her back, Heron-marked hilt projecting above one shoulder. "There were unpleasant things in there," she complained, "the skulls of those beast-creatures we fought adorned the walls, and there were worse things besides…"

N'aethan rose, stamping his feet in the boots to settle them. He had not removed his stockings, so neither Mitsu nor Feren had seen the claws on his toes. "I wouldn't know," he commented, "Middle Brother valued his privacy, he never would let me or anyone else go in his room. He said if he ever caught me in there, he would rip my head off and hang it on the wall!" He shrugged. "I _think_ he was joking… it was always kind of hard to tell, with Taw."

Mitsu eyed him flatly. "You are a strange creature, Chami," she muttered, "and your monster-family sound equally peculiar!"

N'aethan grinned, his pointy teeth flashing. "You don't know the _half_ of it, Anchovy! Come on, let's go."

This time, instead of descending the vines that draped the exterior of the _Collam Aman_ , N'aethan led Feren and Mitsu unerringly down to the lowest levels, taking various steep ramps to a particular sub-basement. It was extremely gloomy in the barrel-vaulted chambers far beneath the Dragon College, the _sar_ -light was utilised again, held up by Feren, and tall shadows flickered off the walls and ceiling.

"This is prime rat-territory," N'aethan commented at one point, his voice echoing in the enclosed environment, "but I detect none. It seems the rodent-wards are still functioning…"

"Aye, Rat-Catcher," agreed Feren, without thinking.

N'aethan scowled, his pupils slitting. "I thought I told you not to call me that?!"

"Forgiveness, honoured Lightborn, I spoke in haste!"

"Speak in haste, repent at leisure!" N'aethan hissed.

"Why are we down here, Chami?" Mitsu asked, "I feel as though I have walked every inch of this accursed place…"

"Don't be rude about my home, Anchovy! I am actually saving us some time, as well as a wearying descent. This leads to Middle Bro's secret tunnel, that Father probably _did_ know about, though Taw always claimed he didn't… it extends out into the forest."

"So why didn't we come in this way?" Mitsu demanded.

"Because I couldn't remember exactly where the secret exit was!" N'aethan snapped. "Now be quiet, I need to concentrate."

The brick wall N'aethan had stopped in front of looked like any other wall, but wasn't. He counted up from the bottom, to the side from the left, then pushed a particular brick, seemingly identical to the rest. With a grinding sound, it slid into the wall. There was a rumbling of shifting counterweights and the whole section of brickwork slid to one side, revealing a dark aperture. There were numerous cobwebs, N'aethan brushed them aside and moved into the tunnel, Feren following, having to stoop somewhat, since the ancient designers of this hidden passage had not taken looming Ogier into account in their plans.

Mitsu hesitated, eyeing the webs. "Are there spiders in there?" she wondered.

"There might be. Why?"

"No reason."

"Do you fear spiders, Mitsu?" Feren asked curiously.

"I fear nothing, Ogier! I just do not want them to get in my hair, that is all."

The tunnel went on for some way, gradually rising, until they came to a round stone portal. "I hope it still opens," N'aethan muttered, placing his gloved hands flat against the stone and shoving with all of his considerable strength. With a groan, the portal slowly swung open, shimmering daylight intruding on the dark tunnel. The sound of rushing water was loudly evident. Though he detected no danger, either with his sharp senses or from his Shield- _ter'angreal_ , N'aethan drew his blade before slipping through the opening. He stepped out onto a narrow, damp ledge, bordered in front by a curtain of falling water. He nodded, satisfied. It had been near four thousand years since he had last stood on this spot, but the course of the river had not changed, the exit was still hidden behind a waterfall.

Middle Brother had brought him here, on his first night of freedom, and he had walked in the woods, revelling in the sights and sounds and smells of the outside world. Later, whilst sneaking back into their quarters, old Ledrin had caught them, but he had just smiled understandingly and promised not to tell the Master.

Feren joined him on the ledge, then Mitsu, brushing cobwebs out of her hair and scowling.

"Be careful, it is slippery," N'aethan warned them. They emerged from behind the waterfall, descending rough-hewn stone steps, to stand beside the river. The bulk of the _Collam Aman_ loomed through the trees.

"Now, there must be a parting of the ways," N'aethan announced, portentously. He had been rehearsing this speech in his head whilst making his way through the tunnel. Feren blinked large eyes at him, Mitsu just stared, expressionless. "I told you both about the Weapon, did I not?" N'aethan had shared certain parts of Father's message with them, after the fact. They both nodded, though Mitsu looked sceptical. "The _Bhan'dhjin Samma_ is a hideous device, by all accounts, and it behoves us to prevent it from being used, or all life; human, Ogier, even Lightborn, will cease to exist." N'aethan addressed Feren; "good Treebrother, your people know much ancient lore – mayhap there is some scrap of evidence in your archives that might reveal the location of this Weapon?"

Feren shrugged his broad shoulders. "I suppose it is possible, honoured Lightborn, though I have never heard of any such thing as this 'Breaker.' I am only young, however, and have not studied the records to the extent that the Elders have."

"Be so good as to return to your _stedding_ and initiate a search for such evidence. Tell Elder Hahal and Maram's mother that you do not have to get married just yet, tell them Sin'aethan Shadar Cor said so!"

Feren's ears had been drooping a little at the prospect of returning to Stedding Dashai; now, they perked up a bit and he smiled hesitantly.

"Anchovy!"

"Yes, Chami?"

"Go with Feren. Tell Balal and the other Ogier Guardians that Sin'aethan Shadar Cor requests that they not kill you, for all that you are allegedly human!"

Mitsu frowned. "Why must I go to the _stedding?_ I do not wish to go to the _stedding._ "

"You must accompany Feren so that if he discovers any information that is of use, you can bring it to me. I will await you on the beach where first we saw the Great Ocean."

"Once again, you seek to use me as a lowly messenger!"

"I do indeed. And I hold you to your oath, Mitsu!"

"Very well." Mitsu smiled snidely. "Chami Rat-Catcher!"

N'aethan growled angrily. How he loathed that foolish name!

"Where will you go, honoured Lightborn?" Feren enquired.

"I must go and rescue my Aes Sedai and the others, some of whom are marked for death. It is an urgent matter." He glanced at Mitsu. "I shall try to recover your precious ring- _ter'angreal_ too," he added, in a probably futile attempt to mollify her. "I intend to go _fast._ Faster than either of you can hope to move, you would never be able to keep up with me. _That_ is why there must be a parting of the-"

"My books!" cried Feren, "I almost forgot! I must go and retrieve them forthwith!"

N'aethan sighed. He hated being interrupted…

The heavy knapsack bulging with large, Ogier-sized, wood-bound books was still secreted beneath the holly bush. Feren dragged it out with every sign of relief. "I am glad it did not rain in the night," he mumbled.

N'aethan was on the verge of a pithy remark, but paused, his tufted ears pricking up, listening intently. At the edge of his audible range, he had thought he heard… yes, there it was again, slightly louder. Coming closer. N'aethan scowled, his oddly shaped pupils narrowing dangerously into slits. "If there is one noise I cannot stand," he growled, "but for the sound of Trolloc kettle-drums and war-horns, it is the barking of _dogs!_ "

"Dogs?" repeated Feren, nervously.

"Yes! Drooling, unhygienic, foul-smelling dogs!"

"I _like_ dogs, Chami," Mitsu protested, "they are loyal and trustworthy."

"They are stupid and craven!" snapped N'aethan. How he despised all dogs! He always had… The barking of the beasts continued in the distance, but was getting nearer, so that the others could now hear it too.

Feren made a low moaning sound, fumbling his sung-wood club from where it hung against his back.

"What is wrong, Gardener?" Mitsu asked.

Feren wasted no time in telling her. "The forces of the Laughing God – they use dogs to track their prey! They must have picked up our trail… it is them! They are coming for us!"

Mitsu scowled, reached over her right shoulder and swept the heavy, curved blade from its scabbard. N'aethan drew his sword also. They waited.

Then, N'aethan saw movement in the trees, approaching. The dogs were yet some distance off, by the sound of it, so it must be someone else…

"Somebody is coming," N'aethan warned the others. He squinted. " _Two_ somebodies," he qualified. They tensed.

Then, a maiden ran from the trees, graceful as a deer. A large, white wolf ran beside her. They both came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the three strangers. The wolf growled at them warningly. Surprisingly, so did the girl. There was something rather wild about her… She was young, just shy of her twentieth Nameday by the looks of it, and very attractive, with short, ash-blonde hair and high cheekbones. Her sole garment was a brief doeskin tunic, her bare limbs lithe and tan, as though she spent a deal of time outdoors. She had an athletic figure, and held herself in a proudly defiant stance. There was a sharp-looking, obsidian-bladed knife tucked through the belt of her tunic, which she drew and waved at them threateningly.

But it was her _eyes_ that drew N'aethan's attention – they were golden! They shone in the sunlight. The wolf was just a wolf. Its eyes were blue. The wild-looking maiden glared at them, then stared at Feren, her pretty mouth dropping open in amazement. She pointed at him with the obsidian blade. "What is _that?_ " she demanded, in oddly-accented Vulgar.

"Do you not know, human?" enquired Feren, sounding offended.

"It talks!" exclaimed the girl.

Feren frowned, hairy ears flattening against the sides of his skull.

The maiden tore her gaze away from Feren, golden eyes looking Mitsu up and down, her full lips curving into a slight smile. Then, she turned her attention to N'aethan. Her unusual eyes widened. "It is _you!_ " she cried.

"You know me?" enquired N'aethan, keeping an eye on the wolf, which was staring at them in hostile fashion.

"I know you not," answered the golden-eyed maid, "but I _saw_ you… it was last night, while I walked in the Wolf Dream, that I beheld you; mating with a female!" Her blonde brows drew down, she added, curiously; "how is it that you have claws, black claws upon your hands and feet?"

N'aethan gaped, at something of a loss.

"I _knew_ you had claws, Chami!" Mitsu muttered, sounding satisfied.

N'aethan ignored her. "The Wolf Dream?" he asked.

"Yes! Where else?" the girl answered impatiently.

"You mean the Dream World… _Tel'aran'rhiod?_ "

"What a strange word. Is it Old Tongue? I do not speak that…" The wild maiden glanced over her shoulder. The barking had got closer while they stood there, confusing each other… She spoke again, as much to herself as to them; "they will be here soon, the evil ones. I will run no further, I will fight them, and so will Ice and the others. Won't you, Ice?" She was addressing the wolf, giving its ears an affectionate stroke. It may have been his imagination, but N'aethan thought that the wolf almost seemed to nod its shaggy head in response! The maiden fixed her golden gaze on them, challengingly; "will you stand with me, strangers?" she asked.

Surprisingly, Mitsu answered; "but of course."

The girl smiled at her. Mitsu smiled back.

"I am called Tamei," the maiden revealed. She nodded to the white wolf. "She is Ice, though her wolf-name is much longer. What are you called?"

"I am the Bloodknife, Mitsu," replied Mitsu. N'aethan noted that she was eyeing the golden-eyed girl – Tamei – admiringly, and her attention was being reciprocated. So Mitsu was like Kiam Sedai in her proclivities, was she? He had suspected as much…

"I am Feren," stated Feren, stiffly.

Tamei looked at the young Ogier uncertainly, as though surprised that he had a name, then moved her arresting gaze to N'aethan.

"My title is Sin'aethan Shadar Cor," N'aethan answered, "but the shortened form is 'N'aethan.'" He scowled, pupils slitting, "and just what do you mean; you saw me _mating?!_ "

Tamei nodded. "Coupling with a woman, yes!" she affirmed, before frowning. "You should do that in _private_ , not in the Wolf Dream! I mislike having to look upon such carnal behaviour!"

N'aethan took a deep breath, opened his mouth, but Tamei forestalled him; "here come the hounds!" she shouted, exuberantly. A dozen large, ferocious dogs burst into the clearing opposite them. They came to a halt at the sight of their prey and stood there, hackles raised, snarling menacingly, saliva dripping from between their bared, white teeth.

 _Dogs!_ Horrible, horrible dogs! N'aethan sheathed his blade, tore off his gloves and advanced on the hounds, ten black claws sliding from their sheaths, sharp teeth bared, growling ferociously. Dogs always brought out the beast in him, particularly Darkhounds, but in their absence, these vile curs would do – he was going to slice them to shreds! The hounds looked at him, looked at each other… then, yelping and whining, they turned and fled back into the trees!

N'aethan watched them go, repressing the urge to give chase, feeling a hint of anti-climax about the whole situation. He sheathed his claws and turned. Mitsu and Feren were watching him with a certain amount of wariness, Tamei with unabashed interest. The wolf, Ice, made a whuffing sound, turning her head to one side, blue eyes fixed on N'aethan.

"Ice says you smell a bit like one of the wildcats that live down south," Tamei declared, then; "what _are_ you? Why, you're even stranger than that thing there!" She pointed at Feren again.

Feren scowled darkly. "I am not a _thing,_ I am an _Ogier!_ " he bellowed.

Tamei laughed. "An Ogier? A brother to the trees? Why, there's no such thing – tis a myth!"

"Do I _look_ like a myth?" Feren demanded.

Tamei ignored him, her golden eyes fixed on N'aethan. "Well?"

"I am Lightborn," he said, simply. His eyes narrowed. "And what are _you_ , might I ask? You have funny eyes, you talk to wolves and you can presumably visit the World of Dreams, where you snoop on people while they are-"

"Here come the evil ones!" Tamei shouted, interrupting him again!

A score of savage-looking men advanced into the clearing, stepping menacingly from the trees. They wore ill-cured furs and ragged britches, red symbols of an arcane nature tattooed on their bare chests and arms. They brandished crude weapons; flint-tipped spears for the most part, with some blades and hand-axes of the same sharp material. Their hair was long and unkempt, their faces covered by rough leather masks, each with a curved, smiling mouth carved into it.

The one in the centre leant on his spear and regarded them with dark eyes through the holes in his mask, which unlike the others, was painted red. In addition, he wore a bronze torc around his neck, perhaps a sign of authority, since he seemed to be the leader of this mob. "There you are," he called to Tamei, in rough Vulgar, "we have hunted you long, wolf-witch…"

"This is _my_ territory!" Tamei shouted back, "mine and the pack's! You'd best leave now, or Ice and I will eat your heart!"

The red-masked brigand laughed loudly at this, his men joining in. There was something not quite right about their laughter, it had more than a hint of madness to it. Then, the leader glared belligerently at N'aethan, Feren and Mitsu. "Strangers aren't allowed here; this land, from the ocean to the ice-sea, is the province of the Laughing God, praise his name!"

"Praise him!" shouted the rest of the masked men.

"Do you want to die fast or slow?" the leader added, conversationally.

"Neither!" shouted N'aethan, raising his sword. "Run away, as your dirty dogs did, or we shall kill you all!" he warned.

The leader laughed harshly, his men echoing the cruel sound. "Can you count, stranger? We outnumber you, five to one!"

"Not quite!" cried Tamei, then threw back her head and howled. Ice howled too. Immediately, a pack of a dozen black and grey wolves burst from the trees on all sides, attacking the Laughing God's men. N'aethan ran forward to help, the others at his heels. The leader raised the hand that was not holding the spear. To N'aethan's special sight, a nimbus of light began to form around him.

"Have a care!" N'aethan shouted, "that red-masked one can channel!" He had to get close, and quickly, before the _Souvraniene_ could do any damage to the others with his webs… N'aethan, of course, had nothing to fear from him.

"Burn!" shouted the channeling leader, pointing at him.

N'aethan grinned savagely. "I don't think so!" he snarled, his Shield- _ter'angreal_ glowing brightly as it disrupted his opponent's flows.

"What..?" the leader had time to say, then N'aethan's Power-wrought blade cleaved his throat open. Dark blood gushed from the mortal wound and the male-channeler collapsed to the ground, thrashing.

N'aethan turned to survey the scene of battle… he was just in time to see Mitsu leap and spin in the air, performing an elegant Whirlwind in the Mountains, taking a big man's masked head clean off. Feren was apologising to his victims as he slew them, the massive club sweeping through the air in a blur to impact an enemy's skull with a sickening crunch. "Sorry about that!" Feren cried. The club smashed into a rib-cage, and stove it in. "Please forgive me!"

Tamei danced gracefully amongst the foe, a little like an Aiel but wilder, her obsidian blade slashing and stabbing. Ice stayed with her, guarding her back. The other wolves took care of the rest, tearing out throats and breaking necks with their powerful jaws. The surviving followers of the Laughing God, barely a half-dozen, broke and ran, the wolves pursuing them into the trees.

N'aethan doubted they would get far… then, an idea occurred to him and he sped into the forest himself, swiftly outpacing the wolves. Up ahead, a small man was running hard. N'aethan tackled him to the ground, tore the hand-axe from his grasp and slammed him up against a tree. The wolf pack raced past to either side, closing on the remaining enemy. Harsh screams and savage snarls resounded through the woods, indicating that none of the retreating foe had escaped…

Tamei appeared, her golden eyes wide with excitement, blood on her obsidian blade. The she-wolf, Ice, trotted at her heels, muzzle bloody. Tamei regarded N'aethan curiously. "What are you doing?" she asked, then nodded at the prisoner, "you should kill him. He is an evil one."

"I'm sending a message," N'aethan answered, then touched his blade to the small man's neck. "You! Take off that foolish mask!" Hastily, the prisoner obeyed, tearing the leather mask from his face. He was unremarkable to look at, unshaven, rather ugly, his dark eyes flicking about nervously. He was clearly terrified.

Mitsu and Feren joined them.

"You fought well," Tamei told Mitsu, admiringly.

"As did you," Mitsu responded, eyeing Tamei curiously with her dark, tilted eyes. "Can you truly speak to wolves?"

"Of course," Tamei answered, "I first began to hear them when I was younger. Then, my eyes changed colour and my people said I was a witch and banished me from the village." She shrugged. "Now I live in the forest with my friends. But even with Ice and the pack for company, it is a lonely life."

Mitsu smiled suggestively. "I can think of ways to make it less lonely."

Tamei smiled back at her and winked a golden eye.

"Would you two lovebirds cease cooing to each other, or take it elsewhere?" growled N'aethan, exasperated, "I am trying to question a prisoner over here!"

Mitsu scowled at him, Tamei simply eyed the man in question scathingly. "He won't tell you anything I don't already know, the nasty wolf-killer," she muttered. "You should just slay him and be done with it. If you don't want to do it, I will, or you could give him to the pack."

The prisoner moaned with fear.

"The humans who serve the Laughing God deserve to die," agreed Feren. His ears lay flat against his head, his wide mouth set in a grim line. "They have murdered Ogier, felled the Great Trees, despoiled _stedding_ …"

N'aethan ignored them both. "Tell me what I want to know, or I shall start to cut bits off you, and feed them to the wolves," he told the prisoner.

"What… what do you wish to hear?" the small man asked, in the same rough dialect of the Vulgar that the channeling leader had used.

"Where are you from?" N'aethan demanded, "where do you call home?"

"Down… down south… a ruined city of the last Age…"

"He means Larcheen," explained Tamei, sounding bored, "what is left of it, anyway."

"The Midnight City! It still exists?"

"Some of it."

N'aethan turned back to the prisoner. "This Laughing God you serve – he can be found there?"

"I don't know, Lord!" wailed the prisoner, "I've never even seen him… he gives his orders to the ones with the Power, like Strummer, who you slew, and they orders us! I beg of you, please don't feed me to those savage beasts!"

"It is what you deserve," growled Tamei.

"Very well," growled N'aethan, seeing that he would get nothing further of use out of this snivelling wretch, "I shall let you live…" - the prisoner began to babble with gratitude - "…on one condition. Go back to Larcheen with a message for the Laughing God, to be conveyed to him by his _Souvraniene._ Tell him that I am coming for him. Tell this Laughing God that Sin'aethan Shadar Cor will end his reign of tyranny, his miserable existence also."

The prisoner stared at N'aethan as though he were mad, then stumbled away into the trees. N'aethan glanced at Tamei; "kindly tell your wolves to let him pass safely."

Tamei frowned, but addressed the she-wolf by her side. "Go with him, Ice. Don't let the pack eat him." Ice made a whining sound. "Yes, I _know_ you want to bite him – so do I! But do as the clawed man who smells funny wishes!"

Ice stared at N'aethan for a moment, mouth open, tongue lolling against sharp teeth, then loped into the woods on the trail of the released prisoner, carrying his threatening message.

Tamei draped a bare arm companionably about Mitsu's shoulders, and the Seanchan assassin did not object. Tamei eyed Feren with a certain amount of confusion; he frowned at her. Then, she addressed N'aethan confidingly; "Ice quite likes you. So do I, though I'm not sure why. I don't particularly care for men, as a rule." She gave Mitsu a bold smile.

"Nor do I," murmured Mitsu, smiling back at her. "But he is no _man_ ," she added, "he is a Chami!"

"Oh. Whatever is that?" asked Tamei, curiously.

"A kind of monster," N'aethan answered wearily, before Mitsu could explain further. "But I don't know if I particularly like _you_ , wolfgirl!" he then growled, "peeping-Tam! Spying on me while I make love to my Aes Sedai!"

"Oh, the pale-skinned girl, she was Aes Sedai? That's unusual." Tamei scowled. "But I wasn't spying on _you_ , I was spying on _him,_ " she protested. " _He_ was the one who was spying on you, actually!"

"Him? He? Who are you talking about?" N'aethan demanded.

"Who do you _think?_ Why, the Laughing God, of course!"


	6. Chapter 5 : The Laughing God

**Gleeman Bob writes :** _a shorter chapter than usual, but lots of exciting stuff happens and we find out who the Laughing God is... though some answers only lead to more questions! unfortunately, Gen does not appear in this week's narrative as he is otherwise engaged... eating cheese! the segment in the woods contains the word 'tribade.' this refers to someone who practices 'tribadism.' if you don't know what that means then look it up, I know I did! good job I'm rated T, if you are young and impressionable, read Harry Potter instead! or Fifty Shades of Grey, whatever rows your boat. isn't literature wonderful?! hope you enjoy the following, and even if you don't, keep those reviews coming... I do appreciate knowing that you fanfictioneers out there are critiquing my foolish prose. and as ever..._

 _...Walk in the Light!_

* * *

Davian the Dragon King, resplendent in velvet robes of an Imperial purple, turned away from the map and regarded his assembled courtiers with disturbing, violet-tinged eyes that shone in his handsome, dark-skinned face. He smiled his customary cruel smile.

" _Tear next, methinks,_ " Davian stated in the Old Tongue, his voice deep and sonorous. The court, dressed in their silk and satin finery, no few of the women veiled in damask, some of the men also, broke into loud, sycophantic applause; all but the prisoner. She contented herself with silence and a furious scowl. And Davian's young Court Bard raised his lute, waited for the noise to die down then, whilst accompanying himself with a jaunty melody, sang in the low, Vulgar speech:

"Oh, the People of the Dragon

shall be loaded in a wagon!

With our peerless leader driving

and no enemy surviving;

why, we'll take the town of Tear,

for in truth we have no fear!"

Davian's smile became a grin, somewhat savage, and he looked almost unhinged for a moment. The courtiers held their collective breaths; their ruler was known for his abrupt and often lethal alterations in mood; 'changeable as the weather in M'Jinn' as the ancient saying went… what would his reaction to the impromptu, irreverent song be?

The Court Bard – known to be even more mercurial than Davian himself – grinned back at his patron. " _Well, my Liege? What think you of my muse this day?_ " This time, he formed his words in the Old Tongue, as was only proper. Only peasants spoke the Vulgar amongst themselves, though all present understood it. Its use had become much more widespread since the destruction of the Trolloc Wars, which had finally ended three hundred years before the present times. And such times they were; war had come again, though not from the Shadow, nor from the Blight. Davian had raised his banner, that of the Dragon Reborn, and vast armies had clashed as a result. Men had died in droves, and even Aes Sedai had been killed. Or captured…

Davian answered his Bard; " _I think me that your much-abused muse has rolled over and died!_ " The court broke into fawning laughter at this witticism. " _Be silent!_ " Davian roared. Aghast, the courtiers obeyed. Davian's dark brows drew down over his strange, hypnotic eyes. " _I mislike songs in the Vulgar speech, rhyming 'wagon' with 'Dragon' is a tad tortuous, not to mention obvious, and Tear is no town, tis a city._ "

" _Alliteration, Highness!_ "

" _You are ever a fool, good Jeb! And I have never driven a wagon in the entirety of my misspent life – the very idea!_ " The courtiers laughed nervously, and this time, were permitted to do so.

The Court Bard – Jebedah – a short, fair-haired man swathed in rich blue velvets, opened his mouth to further rail his ruler, but then closed it, cocking his head to one side and glancing at the prisoner with pale, blue eyes. " _The Aes Sedai is trying to break her Shield again,_ " he commented, conversationally.

Davian nodded. " _Aye, that she is._ " He addressed his courtiers commandingly; " _leave our presence, all of you._ " As one, the assembled court bowed or curtsied, according to their gender, and filed hastily from the sumptuous audience chamber of the Royal Palace of Shiota. There were many Lords and Ladies amongst them; scions of proud and powerful Houses who had sworn fealty to the Dragon King rather than see their lands laid waste, their people slaughtered and themselves hung up in gibbets. Some of the courtiers darted nervous glances at the Aes Sedai prisoner as they hurried past her. A few of these glances were less nervous than sympathetic, but none dared raise a voice in her defence. Davian had sent more important people than they to the headsman's block for far less…

With the audience chamber empty, excepting the Dragon King, his Bard, the Aes Sedai and her two guards, silence reigned but briefly. Davian spoke; " _come forward, Barashelle Sedai._ " Barashelle of the Green Ajah did not obey the summons immediately, but examined her guards; young, fanatical-looking men garbed in dark silks, seemingly unarmed, large embroidered badges on their chests depicting a fierce, lion-maned creature with five golden claws to each foot.

Barashelle herself was yet a handsome woman, for all that she had sworn her Oaths on the Binding Rod and was approaching her four hundredth year of life, the hair framing her pale, ageless features the same raven-black as ever. Green, silken, divided skirts swished together as she stepped forward, her guards moving with her. Dark, perceptive eyes glanced searchingly right and left at her unwanted escort, passed over the Bard without much in the way of interest and fixed on Davian. There were few who could meet his intense, violet-hued gaze without quailing, but Barashelle could. She had faced worse than the Dragon King, in her days…

Barashelle Sedai spoke, using the Old Tongue naturally, her voice precise and cold; " _you can all channel. I sense it in you, I have that Talent. These beardless youths who hold my Shield in place, your silly Bard with his foolish songs-_ " Jeb the Court Bard bowed sarcastically at this, flourishing his cloak, "- _and of course, you most of all, Davian._ "

" _He is the Dragon King!_ " snapped one of the guards.

" _You will address him as such!_ " added the other, angrily.

Barashelle ignored them. Davian stepped away from the large, detailed map of the Westlands that hung beside his throne, depicting numerous nations; two of which were currently under his sway, and moved forward in a predatory glide, approaching his Aes Sedai prisoner. He was a tall man, Aiel-tall even, and towered over Barashelle.

" _Attempt to break your Shield again, and you shall be stilled,_ " Davian promised the captive Sister.

Barashelle's full lips curved in a contemptuous smile. " _Still me or kill me, it matters little. I have led a long life, I have few regrets._ " Her eyes flashed dangerously. " _Come to the White Tower and be gentled, for only madness and death await you!_ " Her hot-tempered gaze took in the guards, the Bard; " _awaits_ all _of you!_ "

The Court Bard laughed, an unsettling sound. He laughed often, he was known for it. " _Oh,_ I'll _not die for a goodly while!_ " he cried, " _it has been promised me; why, the Great Lord said so!_ "

Barashelle's eyes narrowed. " _A Friend of the Dark!_ " she hissed. " _So it is true, what they say of you, Davian – you_ do _keep low company!_ "

Davian shook his head impatiently, long, dark hair brushing his wide shoulders. " _Jeb is no Darkfriend, Allservant witch!_ " He tapped his skull meaningfully with a richly be-ringed finger. " _He is just a little far gone, more so than the rest of my adherents, that is all… he does not always know what he is saying._ "

"That _is the fate that assuredly lies in store for you and your male-channeler subjects! Come to the Tower and be given surcease!_ " Barashelle implored.

Davian smiled grimly. " _Do you truly imagine that I will come crawling to Tar Valon to be gentled and given an almost certain death-sentence," he demanded fiercely, "when I rule the powerful nations of Shiota and Fergansea, with Moreina the next to fall, the Stone of Tear and Callandor mine, when my loyal followers run amok in every city of the Westlands and it is my fated destiny to rule the World as the Dragon Reborn?_ "

Barashelle Sedai stared at him for a long moment, then shook her head sadly. " _No,_ " she answered, " _no, I don't suppose that you will. You are as Yurian Stonebow, and Raolin Darksbane before him; a slave to your own vaunted ambition!_ "

" _Ambition is a dangerous Mistress,_ " commented Jeb the Bard, twanging his lute. He fixed his disturbing gaze on Barashelle. " _You fought in the wars, did you not, my Lady?_ "

" _The_ Trolloc _Wars. I did indeed, under the tutelage of my old mentor, Tamasin Ridolphi, Aes Sedai. She is long dead. I am glad that she did not live to see this day. In those wars, I slew many a foul Dreadlord, some of whom closely resembled your good self!_ "

The Bard laughed loudly, then addressed his King; " _you cannot kill her, my Liege. Why, she is a very Heroine of the Light! Not to mention a woman of fame, beauty and substance!_ "

Davian frowned, troubled. " _Is this a viewing, Jeb? A foretelling? Do you prophecy?_ "

" _Nay, my King Dragon; none of the above! Why, tis merely good manners!_ "

Davian made a disgusted sound, waved a dismissive hand at his unusual Court Bard and fixed his gaze on Barashelle. " _You know what I must do?_ " he asked, quietly.

" _I do._ " Barashelle smiled coldly. " _You destroyed my Sisters in the heat of battle. Myself, you will dispose of in cold blood._ " She raised her voice angrily; " _but know this; the end is coming for you, False Dragon! Mark my words, one of my Ajah shall be the death of you, ere long!_ "

Davian was seemingly unimpressed by this, he smiled his cruel smile once more. " _How do you wish to die, Barashelle Sedai?_ " he enquired.

" _I care not._ " Barashelle nodded at the Bard. " _But have_ him _do it. He disgusts me… but he also intrigues me._ "

" _I do tend to have that effect on women!_ " laughed Jeb.

Davian sighed. " _I would that you had joined my Cause,_ " he muttered, sounding genuinely regretful. " _Well, the Wheel weaves…"_ He turned to the two guards. " _Come._ " They followed him from the chamber. Davian paused at the wide doorway, addressing his Court Bard; " _make it quick, Jeb. She deserves that much._ "

" _Oh, that I will, my Liege!_ "

" _And don't make a mess, like last time!_ "

After Davian and the guards had gone, the Bard regarded the captive Aes Sedai. He was much more powerful than she, held her Shield in place with ease. Barashelle eyed him back, with a hint of curiosity, and absolutely no fear.

"What?" Jeb asked, in the Vulgar speech.

"Can you truly Foretell?" Barashelle enquired, in the same language.

Jeb shrugged, then nodded slowly. "Oh yes. In my dreams; twixt sleep and _Tel'aran'rhiod_. Why, the things I've seen! The places I've been!" Jeb lowered his voice conspiratorially; "I'm only telling you this because I'm going to end you presently, but it might cheer you to know that poor Davian is _doomed!_ His days; numbered. He'll never take Tear, never touch the sword Callandor, never fulfil any Prophecies of the Karaethon Cycle. He's _not_ the Dragon Reborn, just another pretender to the Kinslayer's cursed legacy… and naturally, he won't be the last. But it'll be a long while till _Tarmon Gai'don_ , till the Lord of the Morning is truly reborn. Near two thousand years from now, there's a young chap of Aiel blood from what used to be Manetheren who… well, never mind." He sighed. "All things must end, but it would have been a fine thing, to be Court Bard to the True Dragon. Well, I suppose I'll just have to go back to being a Gleeman again…"

"You addled fool!" Barashelle spat, "do you imagine that you have any more of a future than Davian does? Why, you are clearly halfway gone already!"

Jeb threw back his head and laughed loudly, his mirth echoing in the all-but empty marble-roofed chamber. He wiped tears from his eyes. "You think my obscure manner is from the _Taint?_ " he asked, when he could properly speak again, "nay! Tis more a matter of too many cousins marrying cousins; oh, we were an inbred lot in my little mountain village in Basharande, I can tell you!" Jeb tugged at his collar, leaning close to Barashelle. "See this?"

Barashelle Sedai looked, despite her revulsion at being close to the strange little man. He was wearing a gleaming, bronze torc of ancient design about his neck.

"This is a _ter'angreal_ " Jeb confided. "Very old, very powerful. The Foxes gave it me, when I went to visit them, courtesy of Ghenjei's fine metal tower. Of course, I barely made it out alive, but that's the Eelfinn for you; damned poor hosts!" He laughed again, sounding more than a little insane.

Barashelle eyed him cautiously. "By the Hand of the Creator, you _are_ mad," she whispered.

"Have it your own way, War Heroine! But my lovely torc protects me from the Great Lord's Taint and influence, just as well as if I still served him!" Jeb grinned wolfishly. "There are some Oaths that it is right dangerous to foreswear, and the one I took at Shayol Ghul is no exception!"

"So you _are_ a filthy Darkfriend!" muttered Barashelle.

" _Was_ a Friend. Was. But no more. I dislike having a Master, Davian being no exception. By the by, it won't be the Green Ajah that takes his life, as you hope, nor even the Red… one of his advisors is going to assassinate him, attempt to steal his title… _they_ won't last long." Jeb frowned. "I wonder which one? The dreams are hardly specific. Lord Haavane most probably, he's an ambitious, treacherous swine, and can channel strongly." He shrugged. "Anyhow, if I manage to live through the next few months, and there are many that won't, then I plan to set up on my own, you see. Not as yet another False Dragon, but as something else, somewhere else, with my own followers to do my bidding. And I wish to live forever, not at the Dark One's behest, but at mine own."

"How will you do that, you poor, insane wretch?!" Barashelle demanded.

"Oh, there are ways and means. But enough talk! Any last requests?"

"Yes," answered Barashelle definitively. "After you have killed me, be so good as to do the World a favour by killing yourself!"

Jeb laughed again. "Oh, I _like_ you, Barashelle Sedai! You have fire in your belly! Such a shame that it must end this way…"

"I care not," responded Barashelle, her words and meaning genuine. "It is my time, I grow weary of this life alone. I never took another Warder after dear Anselan. If the Creator is kind, then I shall be with him again, on the other side of the veil."

"Very poetic; are you sure _you're_ not the Bard?" Jeb considered a moment, then; "tell you what, Aes Sedai; I've heard of you and Anselan Gaidin, as have we all here at court. Tis the sole reason the Dragon King spared you on the battlefield – curiosity! Everyone knows the story of the love you two bore for each other; 'Barashelle winning the adoration of Anselan' was always a popular tale told around the villages when I yet wore a patched cloak… before I began to channel and see into the future and so forth…" Jeb shrugged again. "I'm feeling rather guilty about doing Davian's dirty work in this instance, though I will anyway since the poor doomed fool has always done right by me… we're friends, sort of, I was the very first to follow him when he raised his standard… but… what if I were to offer some form of consolation, by composing an epic ballad; 'the Lay of Anselan and Barashelle?' Would that sentiment please you, my Lady?"

Barashelle thought about it. Even Shielded, she could sense the Power gathering within the peculiar and dangerous Court Bard's small frame, the mounting forces of _saidin_ slowly filling him, the deadly weaves in preparation that would assuredly end her long life in but a few moments… and she smiled, sadly.

"Why not? Pen your lyrics, lunatic Bard. Though not in the Vulgar speech if you please, that is probably the one thing upon which I agree with the accursed False Dragon, Davian." Barashelle Sedai then spoke her final words in the Old Tongue; " _after all, there is more than one manner of immortality…_ "

* * *

' _For Anselan and Barashelle_

 _in solitary splendour dwell;_

 _beyond the veil of Tel'aran_

 _art Barashelle and Anselan!'_

extract; 'The Lay of Anselan & Barashelle' attributed to Jebedah Chul Simanon;

Court Bard to the False Dragon, Davian, circa : FY 352

[whereabouts unknown; presumed dead]

* * *

 **Chapter Five : The Laughing God**

N'aethan ran. Ran _fast_ , faster than the wind itself, the trees flashing past to either side. A fallen tree trunk blocked his path; he leapt over it, and continued running. His sword, he had strapped to his back, so that it would not bump against his leg as he moved and impede his progress. This reminded him of carrying the Howling Axe in the same place… he had left the ancient weapon- _ter'angreal_ on the beach with the rest of his things when he had departed at Ellythia Sedai's command, to find her brother. Was it still there, or did these Hawx have it?

Feren had told N'aethan all about them; the Hawx did not bother the Ogier, as did the followers of the Laughing God, but they were apparently far from friendly towards anyone not of their particular persuasion. And they were descended from the armies of this Artur Hawkwing fellow, who had lived, reigned and died whilst N'aethan slept outside of time, inured from the turning of the Great Wheel.

Mitsu was a descendant of another of these armies, it would seem… N'aethan had warned Feren to keep quiet about the Hawx in her presence, for all that Ogier were far from competent when it came to dissimulation. He did not want Mitsu to face separate loyalties, since he needed her. For now. Then again, the Seanchan assassin currently had another preoccupation... N'aethan grinned. If he didn't know better, he would think that Mitsu the Bloodknife was somewhat taken with Tamei, the rather gauche wolfgirl whose acquaintance they had made, back in the woods surrounding the _Collam Aman._ Or even if he _did_ know better. Lust was a strange thing; love also.

Who would have thought N'aethan would come to adore the prudish young girl-Sedai who had freed him from the confines of the Stasis Box? Well, one good turn deserved another; he would free Ellythia Sedai from her own prison, on the Isle of the Spire. The others, also. It was a worthy enough cause, for now.

Then, N'aethan must locate Lord Whitecloak, his lover's wayward kin, before the poor fellow succumbed to the inevitable madness that awaited men who began to channel. He might even be able to help him stave off the insanity, at least for a while. He had taken the bronze torc from the leader of the Laughing God's men, after slaying the dangerous _Souvraniene_ , and if his suspicions about its efficacy were correct, then the artefact might well be of use.

And of course, there was his Sister, the fourth Lightborn. Where was she? Seeking him, presumably, as he must seek her. Hopefully, she knew by now where The Breaker, _Bhan'dhjin Samma_ , was hid.

But first things first. This Laughing God could reportedly walk in dreams, as did N'aethan and the wolf-girl. A disquieting development. His enemy could enter _Tel'aran'rhiod_ , where he had the temerity to spy on N'aethan whilst he indulged himself with his lover. It was too provoking! The insane tyrant would pay dearly for his voyeurism, Sin'aethan Shadar Cor would see to that! But the next time he visited the World of Dreams, he would clearly have to be more careful. It seemed that he had underestimated a powerful adversary…

The serried ranks of trees gradually gave way to low scrub and stunted bushes, the land rising. N'aethan could smell salt in the air, and the hill he climbed abruptly proved itself to be a cliff, falling away to the dunes below. N'aethan dropped to his hands and knees, breathing heavily from the exertion of his long run, then carefully crawled the rest of the way to the cliff-edge, keeping low in case of hidden observers. The ocean stretched out to the horizon and for once, it was not empty. A large island lay about a mile offshore, a looming granite castle dominating the southernmost end, and beyond, rising from a hill; a gleaming, three-sided metal tower. Just as Ellythia Sedai had described…

N'aethan smiled grimly, allowing himself a moment of self-congratulation at his orienteering skill, then began to look for a way down the cliff, to the beach beneath. A narrow path looked serviceable enough. N'aethan was wearing his fancloth poncho, naturally, but just to further foil any watchers, he drew his mantle of the same shade-shifting fabric from its pouch and draped it about his head and shoulders, raising the veil to cover his face. Thus camouflaged, he descended swiftly, senses alert for any enemy though the beach seemed deserted. But for the canoe.

A small craft, it was drawn up beyond the high-tide line, a pair of paddles lying nearby. Three sets of clear tracks in the sand led away from it, heading east. Two were boot-prints, the third; bare feet. N'aethan crouched, examining the trail more closely. There was no residual heat, indicating that it was not that recent; from the previous night, perhaps. The shoeless person he was unsure of, the prints too large to be made by Jabal Lionfish's feet, but the marks left by the boots were strangely similar, of the same size and shape, and he thought he recognised these tracks… they appeared to have been made by the twin Warders of Shrina Sedai.

"Garlic and onions!" N'aethan muttered. The sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon. He would wait for cover of night, then infiltrate the isle of the enemy to rescue the prisoners; two of whom seemed to have already made their escape, without recourse to him. N'aethan's strange eyes came to rest on the canoe. " _Well now,_ " he commented, in the High, " _at least I won't have to swim._ "

* * *

"I can't believe I'm carrying around a _k'jasic_ musical instrument," Feir complained, "I absolutely _hate_ musical instruments!"

"What does ' _k'jasic_ ' mean?" Thaeus asked, curiously.

"Oh, it's rather rude. I shan't tell. Old Ledrin would be _most_ upset if he thought I knew words like that."

Thaeus was leading the way to the beach, he glanced over his shoulder at Feir, who was pacing along behind, the heavy golden, silver-chased chest that enclosed the Horn of T'oph held in her arms. He repressed the urge to ask who 'old Ledrin' was, someone from the Age of Legends presumably, now long-dead, and instead enquired; "are you _sure_ I can't help you with that? It's very heavy."

"It is? I wouldn't know. I'm stronger than I look, so stop asking! Why don't you keep an eye out for enemies in stead, handsome lad!" Feir winked at him.

Thaeus grinned and turned back to scan the scenery ahead, in case of ambush. He didn't think that there were any more Shadowspawn about, the Madman seemed to have accounted for them all… apparently, the Draghkar had confessed that they were just a small patrol, sent to scout the area by the 'crone' who he presumed to be the Darkfriend Wilder who had made numerous attempts on his sister's life. He scowled, fingering his sword-hilt. One Desiama's enemy was _every_ Desiama's enemy; he would take her head if he got the chance. Or burn her… No, the Draghkar had most probably been telling the truth. Thaeus tried not to dwell on what had been done to it by Feir and the Gholam to elicit that truth… numerous shrill screams had echoed from the forest whilst he was digging up the Horn. He had done his best to ignore them.

So, no Shadowspawn then, but there might be more of those cannibalistic savages, or worse, something called 'Hawx.' Feir had mentioned these folk in passing and Thaeus did not much like the sound of them…

"We could always leave the box and just carry the Horn," Thaeus suggested.

"But I _like_ the box!" Feir objected, "it's pretty. Even if it _does_ contain a _k'jasic_ musical instrument!"

In time they reached the cliff from where Thaeus and his companions had first beheld the Great Ocean. It stretched out to the north, seemingly forever. They descended to the beach. Three corpses littered the sand, several more lay up amongst the dunes. Some strange-looking wild dogs were chewing at the tattered remains, they yelped and loped away at Thaeus' and Feir's approach.

"What are those?" Thaeus asked.

"In the Old Tongue, as you call it, they are named 'dingoes,'" Feir responded. She dropped the heavy golden chest and crouching, examined one of the dead men. He was somewhat the worse for wear; a young-looking individual wearing buckskins, a deep wound in his chest, the tattoo of a hawk in flight on one bared arm. "Hmm. _Hawx._ And no sign of your people, my Brother either. This is not good. Oh well…" Feir rose and turned to Thaeus, smiling brightly, her mood changing as rapidly as it ever did. "I know; let's go for a nice swim, and then make love on the sand!"

Thaeus blinked. "Well, I suppose…" he responded hesitantly.

"Don't you want to?" Feir asked, "we might as well, since the horrid Gholam isn't around to spoil our fun!"

At Feir's command, the Gholam had remained at the clearing of the Everstone, concealing itself in the bushes. It was to observe and report back if further Shadowspawn emerged from the Portal Stone. Feir had forbidden it from killing or feeding on any that it encountered, its mission was one of espionage only. The Gholam had not been pleased.

Feir slipped out of her dress, stepping lithely into the waves; she paused, eyeing Thaeus over her shoulder. "Well? Are you coming in or not?"

Though he felt that they had matters of more import to occupy them, Thaeus could not help but find Feir an enticing sight… and besides, it was hot. So, he removed his clothes and followed her into the water. They splashed about awhile, clung together and kissed enjoyably, then splashed about some more.

"Alright, that's enough of that!" declared Feir eventually, "go ahead and ravish me upon the beach, milord!"

Thaeus grinned. "As you command, my Lady…" He scooped Feir up in his arms and carried her out of the surf. She kicked her legs and rolled her pale eyes theatrically.

"Help, help, a dangerous Madman has me in his clutches!" Feir wailed, "my chastity is in peril!"

"You're damned right it is!" Thaeus growled menacingly.

Feir smiled up at Thaeus, trailing a long-nailed hand over his chest, but then her eyes flicked to something beyond him, further down the beach to the west, and she scowled. "Curses! There's someone coming." She squinted. " _Three_ someones. Drat!" Feir promptly slid out of Thaeus' arms and went to retrieve her dress and bronze blade from where they lay on the sand.

Thaeus scanned the coastline, but could see no sign of anyone else. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes! My eyes see a good deal further than yours, you myopic human!" Feir rejoined him, clothed once more, the dress clinging to her damp skin in interesting ways. "Also, I think they're rather fine eyes, actually. Don't you agree?"

"They glisten like the winter frost of an everlasting dawn," Thaeus promptly answered.

Feir smiled again, and kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks. Nicely put." She raised an eyebrow. "Not that I object, of course, but are you planning on staying like that?"

Thaeus realised that he was still naked, blushed, and hurried to get dressed. By the time he had his shirt and britches on, he could make out three tiny figures in the far distance, slowly approaching.

Feir stood, hands on slim hips, watching them.

"Can you see who it is?" Thaeus asked, wondering whether to draw his sword.

"Sort of. I don't know them. One has dark skin… a handsome fellow, though with a tattooed face… peculiar. The other two are rather pretty… they're armed with swords, they look like they know how to use them… and they're identical... I can't tell one from the other!"

"The Twins!" Thaeus cried. "Perhaps they'll know what became of my sister and the others?"

"Including my Brother?" Feir eagerly reminded Thaeus.

"Yes, him too!" Thaeus shrugged into his coat and pulled on his boots.

"Well, let's go and meet them. They're not walking particularly fast, and I've better things to do than wait about on the beach all day. Damn it, why did they have to come along at so inopportune a time?" Feir grinned wickedly; "and I was _so_ looking forward to having you _k'jasic_ me, my love!"

"I think I know what that word means now," Thaeus observed sagely. He bowed to Feir formally; "and I promise faithfully to not disappoint you in that regard, when we have some privacy again…"

"Jolly good!" Feir strode toward the distant figures.

Thaeus hesitated. "What of the Horn?" he reminded her.

Feir glanced back at the heavy golden chest and shrugged. "It'll be alright here for now. Are you worried that the dingoes will try to eat it? There are tastier treats for them, hereabouts." She slipped sinuously back and slapped Thaeus on the bottom. "Come along, milord!"

With a sigh, Thaeus paced along beside his unusual lover, Heron-mark blade sheathed at his back, worrying about the fate of his sister and her companions. He should not have left them, it seemed… but had he not, he wouldn't have met Feir. Something about her improved Thaeus' dark mood, his premonition of being doomed that had arisen ever since he learned that he could channel… he was not sure exactly why, but Feir gave him hope. Something to do with being Lightborn, perhaps? Her brother, Naythan Shieldman, seemed to have a similar effect on others…

The three small figures soon resolved themselves into the familiar features of Shrina's twin Warders, Aebel and Blaek. But who was the third person, with the bizarrely tattooed face? As they drew nearer to each other, the dark-skinned youth in the ragged shirt and britches seemed to react warily to the two strangers, but Aebel… or perhaps Blaek… put a hand on his arm, and spoke reassuringly. They had clearly recognised Thaeus, as he had recognised them. They all looked tired, as though they had walked far, and Thaeus noted that Blaek… or perhaps Aebel… had his left arm in a make-shift sling. In addition, the twin Gaidin had swords tucked through their belts, though the weapons did not appear to be their habitual blades. The strangely tattooed youth was apparently unarmed…

"Have a care, Thaeus," Feir whispered, "the tattooed one can channel. I can always tell. He doesn't _look_ particularly mad, but you never know…"

Thaeus didn't ask Feir how she knew this, since he was well aware that she had abilities that were beyond his comprehension, he merely took her word for it and watched the dark-skinned youth closely. The two sets of people stopped walking a few paces from each other. The Twins stared at Feir curiously, as though wondering what she was. She grinned, and winked at them. They blinked, simultaneously.

"Greetings, Aebel and Blaek," Thaeus declared, "how goes it with you?"

"Not well, Lord Whitecloak," answered one of the Twins, Thaeus was unsure which. The one with the broken arm.

"Shrina is held captive by a group of savages calling themselves the Hawx," added the other Twin.

"Your sister, Ellyth Sedai, also."

"And Renn Sedai too."

Thaeus' brow furrowed with worry. "This is ill news… and where is Jabal?"

"He was badly wounded in an escape attempt."

"We were forced to leave him behind when we gained our freedom."

The Twins scowled an identical scowl, then added, in unison; "he _ordered_ us to leave him, in fact."

Feir laughed delightedly, clapping her hands together. The Twins turned their dark eyes on her, frowning. "They even say things at the same time!" Feir commented, "why, they're like a pair of peas in a pod!"

Thaeus made hasty introductions before a fight could break out. "Feir, these Warders are Aebel and Blaek Feruile, forgive me Gaidin, but I am yet unsure which is which…"

"I am Aebel," explained the Twin with the broken arm.

"And I, Blaek," added the uninjured Twin.

Feir smiled at them and lifted her skirts slightly, performing a graceful curtsy. The Twins hesitated a moment, then bowed, hands over hearts.

Thaeus continued with the introductions; "Twins, this is Feir… she is Naythan Shieldman's sister."

The Twins eyed Feir, then eyed each other.

"We did not know that…"

"…Naythan Gaidin had any kin," they commented.

"And they finish each other's sentences too!" laughed Feir, "it really is _too_ entertaining!"

The Twins frowned again.

Feir composed herself. " _You_ didn't know? That's quite alright, until quite recently, I doubt N'aethan knew he had a Sister either… he should have received Father's message by now, though."

The Twins clearly had little clue as to what Feir was talking about. Thaeus was unsure also. Feir glanced at the handsome, dark-skinned youth with the tattooed face, who was looking somewhat impatient, and obviously had no idea what was going on. "You pretty twins are aware that your companion can channel?" she enquired.

The Twins nodded.

"He destroyed an enemy boat with the One Power."

"The enemy in it, too."

Then, they once more spoke together; "his name is Ayyad."

The dark-skinned youth eyed them, then uttered a brief sentence in a liquid and incomprehensible tongue. Thaeus did not know what his words meant. Surprisingly, Feir did.

"He says his name is actually 'Hamadi' and that 'Ayyad' is just his title, _what_ he is as opposed to _who_ he is," Feir translated. She talked briefly to the channeling youth – Hamadi – in the same exotic tongue. With a delighted look on his tattooed face, Hamadi responded. The two spoke together at some length, then Feir turned to the others. "Hamadi says he wants to go back to the island of the barbarians and find someone called 'Dara.'"

"Dara, yes!" confirmed Hamadi, nodding vigorously.

Feir turned to Aebel. "He also apologises for not having been able to Heal your broken arm, but he only knows how to destroy things with the Holy Power, as he calls it, not how to mend them." She turned to Thaeus. "He asks if you know how to Heal wounds, since he senses that you can channel too…"

The Twins blinked at this revelation and eyed Thaeus cautiously.

"That is why I went away," Thaeus explained to them, "the Family Curse. I did not want to harm anyone, when I went insane."

"These are misfortunate tidings," muttered Aebel. Blaek shook his head sadly.

"I'm not mad yet!" Thaeus snapped, "I _know_ that I'm doomed, I don't need your sympathy!"

Feir put an arm around Thaeus soothingly. "Be at peace, milord. We'll figure something out." She glanced at Hamadi. "Handsome over there doesn't seem to have gone funny in the head yet either…"

Hamadi spoke to her, Feir spoke back. He grinned and shook his head solemnly.

"How is it that you come to speak his language?" wondered Thaeus.

Feir shrugged. "Oh, it is the ancient speech of the Easterlings, a rather odd dialect of it, too. Father taught it to me. I was never entirely sure why, since hardly anyone spoke it in our day, but I'm glad it has finally come in handy…" She stared at the Twins with her pale eyes. "So… where in the Wheel is my Brother?"

"Naythan Gaidin was sent by Ellyth Sedai to locate and return her own brother," Aebel explained. He pointed at Thaeus, to illustrate who this was. Feir nodded patiently.

"Your kin, the Shieldman, went south," Blaek continued, "and I think that the Seanchan assassin followed him into the forest, since she disappeared around the same time."

"We have not seen either of them since," the Twins added, completing their explanation.

Feir frowned with confusion. "Seanchan assassin?" she muttered, "Ellyth Sedai? I feel like I've started reading a novel somewhere in the middle, and have no idea who anyone is!"

"The Seanchan is Mitsu," Thaeus explained, "her ship was wrecked, we found her floating in the Dead Sea. She has a bad temper and is rather dangerous. And Ellyth is _my_ sister, an Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah. Naythan serves as her Warder."

"What's a Warder? Is it like a Warman? And it's pronounced 'N'aethan' by the way…"

The Twins shifted impatiently.

"We need reinforcements, to attempt a rescue of the Aes Sedai and Jabal Gaidin," explained Blaek.

"We seek the Aiel," Aebel added, "assuredly they will be of assistance."

Feir frowned again, with further confusion. "Aiel? Da'shain Aiel? What use are _they_ going to be?"

"They are skilled fighters," announced the Twins.

Feir laughed, this time the odd yipping sound that made the newcomers eye her uncertainly. "Fighters? Da'shain? Don't be absurd, they follow the Way of the Leaf!"

Thaeus and the Twins stared at Feir. Hamadi, with no idea what was going on, was gazing out to sea.

"It is the Tinkers who follow the Leaf Way," Thaeus explained, "they call themselves the _Tuatha'an._ "

"That means 'Travelling Folk,'" Feir muttered. "I have no idea who _they_ are, but what of the Aiel?"

"They live in the Waste and seldom emerge, but for once, when they made war on Cairhein and subsequently the rest of the Westlands," revealed Aebel.

"They are accounted fierce warriors," added Blaek, "our Uncle Perel fought them with the Winged Guards, and said they were without peer on the battlefield."

"Perhaps the finest fighters that exist," Thaeus elucidated, "why, even the High King, Artur Hawkwing, could not defeat them!"

"I've heard of _him_ at least," Feir acknowledged, "some old tyrant who the Hawx worship… so you are all telling me that in these benighted times, the Aiel… do violence?" She sounded as though she did not want to believe it.

"Aye!" answered Aebel, "a great deal of violence!"

"They use spears," Blaek added, "knives and arrows too, but mostly spears."

"My own uncle, Lord Captain Leol Desiama, lost half an ear to them at the Blood Snow!" Thaeus chimed-in, a little unnecessarily.

Feir shook her head, seemingly not wishing to admit it could be so. "The Da'shain Aiel broke the Covenant," she whispered, with great sadness.

"What is the-?" Thaeus began to ask, but Hamadi interrupted him, jabbering something and waving his arms to get their attention.

"He says he sees a boat," Feir translated.

They all stared out at the ocean. A distant speck was heading west.

"Can you make out anything?" Thaeus asked Feir.

Feir shaded her pale eyes from the sun, squinting. "Of course. It is a longboat, such as larger ships carry. I see some sailors; a big one with a hook and about a dozen smaller ones without. A stern-looking fellow with a Heron-mark blade… he has large red moustaches, they look silly… he's rather gorgeous though, in spite of them. Also, an attractive yet frail-looking chap wearing a strange, multi-coloured cloak, covered in fluttering patches…"

The Twins frowned at this. They did not care for-

"A Gleeman?" cried Thaeus, "what is _he_ doing here?"

"I don't know, anymore than I know what a 'Gleeman' is… is it like a Troubadour? He carries a harp, in any case. He looks rather ill, as a matter of fact… oh dear, he is being sick over the side of the boat… the sailors are laughing at him…"

"Anything else?" enquired Thaeus.

Feir lowered her hand and scowled. She answered reluctantly; "yes… one other person. A little fellow with a scarred face, looking rather grim. He is fair-haired, green eyed, wears the cadin'sor, has his hair in a tail… and yet, he bears spears, has knives sheathed at his belt, a bow at his back." Feir regarded Thaeus solemnly. "It seems you and the twins were right, milord. The Da'shain have abandoned the Way of the Leaf."

Thaeus did not grasp the import of what Feir was saying. "That sounds like Chassin," he speculated.

The Twins nodded. "They must be going…"

"…to rescue the prisoners," they muttered.

"I wonder where the sailors and Blademaster and Gleeman came from?" mused Thaeus, "there must be others from the Westlands here. We should join forces with them…"

"We don't have time for that!" objected Aebel.

"They are going to execute Shrina!" Blaek cried.

"We could not sense her through the Bond!"

"She could already be dead, for all we know!"

"Something about the Island renders Aes Sedai powerless," the Twins added, as an afterthought.

Feir nodded sagely. "The Spire prevents channeling, I know that much… it is some kind of a big _ter'angreal_ , like the ones the War Ajah used to guard the _Souvraniene_ internment camps during the wars." Her brow furrowed. "What is this Bond you mentioned?"

"A link between Aes Sedai and their Warders," Thaeus explained, "amongst other things, it allows them to locate each other, even over great distances."

"Oh? Interesting. They didn't have anything like that when I was a girl." Feir eyed Thaeus. "This Shrina Sedai; you mentioned that _she_ was the Hornsounder? _Diynen'd'ma'purvene?_ "

"Why, yes."

"Then we have a sure way of telling if she's still alive." Feir scowled. "I'm going to bloody-well stick my fingers in my ears, though!"

After trudging back to the site of the battle, the five of them stood around the large, golden chest, chased with silver. Thaeus leaned over it, brushed some of the dirt away and prodded a couple of the whorls and ridges on its surface… but nothing happened. He glanced at Feir. "Um..?"

"Stand aside, milord!" Feir examined the box for a moment. "These were quite popular in Father's day, he even owned a couple," she muttered, then pushed some of the shapes in a certain order. The lid of the chest sprang open, the ancient bronze Horn of T'oph was revealed; a huntsman's instrument, narrow mouthpiece curling out to a wide bell. Feir backed away from it with a look of vague revulsion.

Thaeus picked the Horn up, held it reverently in his hands. The Twins, who were more than familiar with the troublesome Horn, which had turned out to be the _wrong_ Horn and had inspired a great deal of ire on the part of their Aes Sedai, were unimpressed. But Hamadi gasped and muttered something in his illegible language.

"What did he say?" asked Thaeus.

Feir paraphrased; "it seems that the people of wherever he comes from-"

"Shara," supplied Aebel.

"Co'dansin," corrected Blaek.

"Co'dansin, yes!"

"-have a legend about the three Horns also."

Hamadi said something else in his own liquid tongue.

"When the Horns are sounded, the Last Battle cannot be far behind."

More words from Hamadi, directed at Feir, sounding vaguely interrogatory.

Feir chuckled. "Also, he wishes to know why I have pointed ears. He just asked me if I am an 'animal spirit' whatever _that_ is." Feir rattled off a brief answer in the same, melodic speech that Hamadi used, and the Sharan youth's mouth dropped open.

"Ohhh…" Hamadi said.

Feir grinned, sharp teeth flashing. "I just told him I _was,_ " she explained. Then, she put her fingers in her ears, scowling, as Thaeus raised the mouthpiece of the Horn of T'oph to his lips, took a deep breath, and _blew._ A beautiful, brazen note sounded, seeming to hang in the air longer than it should. Thaeus and the Twins glanced around themselves cautiously, then with relief. No sign of any Sages… clearly, Shrina was yet the Hornsounder, and in order to be that, she had to still live.

Feir took her fingers out of her delicately pointed ears and nodded, satisfied. "Well… I think that answers _that._ "

* * *

Feren sat on a log beside the small camp-fire, trying to read one of his books in the dim light. Attempting to concentrate, though it was difficult. The night was dark; just a sliver of new moon overhead and some distant stars. Several pairs of cold, lupine eyes were fixed on him from the edge of the clearing. Feren was glad that the wolves did not choose to come any closer, since he liked animals and did not wish to have to hit them with his club. But why were they watching him? He rather suspected that the irritating wolf-girl, Tamei, had told them to. She did not seem to trust Ogier, for all that she had finally accepted that the Brothers to the Trees actually _existed!_ Really! Her territory was but two day's walk from a _stedding_ full of Ogier, but she had been completely unaware of their existence… it seemed that the wolves had warned her to avoid that area. With good reason, Feren had to admit.

The Ogier youth realised that he had read the same passage over three times; it was part of Elder Barath's polemic on advanced tree-song, and he moved his large eyes further down the page. Then, from the forest behind, came a high-pitched yelp of delight. Feren blinked, his hairy ears twitching. Further cries of pleasure resounded from the trees, before fading away into the stillness of the night. Feren frowned. " _Humans!_ " he muttered, disapprovingly. It had sounded like Tamei, clearly enjoying the attentions of the other female, Mitsu.

When the two of them had risen from the fire and declared their intention of going for a 'walk in the woods' their true intent had been quite clear. Feren just wished that they had gone further away before initiating their carnal activity, so that he did not have to hear such sounds; it was all-but impossible to read under such duress! Humans had no shame! Imagine carrying on like that in the civilised environs of the _stedding!_ It would not be permitted, should never be tolerated…

Feren's ears flattened against the sides of his shaggy head. He was worried about Stedding Dashai, he wanted to get back there as soon as possible, but it was dangerous to travel the forest at night. He must report to Uncle Balal that a raiding party of the Laughing God's men had been encountered, too close to the _stedding_ for comfort… and apologise to Elder Hahal for neglecting his duties and running away, he supposed. As for Maram… well, he had absolutely no idea what to do about _her!_

More lustful moans emerged from the woods, this time it sounded like Mitsu. Feren sighed, and put the book away. There was little point in trying to concentrate on the ancient writings whilst one's ears were being assaulted by human mating noises and whilst one was being stared at suspiciously by a pack of vicious wolves! Feren tossed another stick of fire-wood onto the blaze in a shower of sparks, and then became aware that the wolves were gone; the bestial eyes at the edge of the clearing had abruptly vanished. He wondered why…

A tall human maiden stepped soundlessly from the trees. She had red hair and blue eyes, moved with lithe grace as she approached. She wore a dusty brown coat and britches tucked into soft laced boots, carried three spears in one hand and a dead rabbit in the other. A bow was slung at her back, a long knife sheathed in her belt. Feren wondered whether to grip his club, leaning against the log next to him, but the human did not look like one of the savages, nor like any human he had ever encountered before, for that matter. Not that he had encountered many humans…

"I see you, Treebrother," the maiden called out formally in a high, clear voice, speaking the Vulgar, "may I share your fire?"

Feren blinked. "Of course you may," he answered, in the same language, gesturing with a large hand to the log opposite, the seat that his two human companions had vacated when they went for their 'walk.'

The maiden stepped silently over to the log and sat down, leaning her spears against it. She introduced herself; "I am Manda of the Wet Sands Sept of the Shaido Aiel."

"I am Feren of Stedding Dash-" Feren came to an abrupt halt. "Did you say 'Aiel,' human?"

"Yes. I am Aiel," Manda responded proudly, holding her head up.

"Da'shain Aiel?"

Manda shrugged. " _Da'shain_ is what the Nightwatcher calls us, sometimes. I know not what it means, Old Tongue presumably. It is probably rude. I shall ask Gerom."

"The Nightwatcher?" Feren cried, " _Vron'cor?_ You mean N'aethan, the honoured Lightborn?"

Manda nodded. "Yes, even he!" She looked at Feren, puzzled. "You know the Nightwatcher, then? Where is he? I seek him."

"The Rat-Catching Lightborn has left our company, he wished to go and rescue his Aes Sedai from the Isle of the Spire; he departed this morn."

Manda frowned. "Then I must-" A loud cry of unabashed pleasure came from the woods. Manda half-rose, reaching for a spear. "What was that?"

Feren blushed, his ears twitching. "It was… Mitsu. Or Tamei. The one being… diverted… by the other," he replied, diplomatically.

Manda sat down again. "Oh. So the Seanchan is with you. I wondered where she had gone. Who is Tamei?"

"A golden-eyed human maiden who can talk to wolves. We encountered her yesterday, shortly before the fight with the Laughing God's people." Feren frowned. "She is rather rude," he added, resentfully.

More shrieks of delight. Manda grinned. "I _thought_ that the Seanchan Mitsu was a girl-lover!" she exclaimed, "she seemed like the type." She shrugged. "Not that I have not occasionally lain with other Maidens of the Spear, of course," Manda added, "but on the whole, I much prefer men. Like the foolish yet attractive Gleeman, though he is espoused now; I have bedded him on many an occasion in the past. Too bad that the handsome _Vron'cor_ is spoken for by his Aes Sedai, those pretty twins by their Aes Sedai also… still, perhaps Ellythia Desiama's comely brother would be interested in some love-play, if we ever see him again? It has been a long while since I coupled with the Stone Dog, Sarien… I grow restless!" Feir frowned, but Manda went on, unashamedly; "why, I might even look to Cohradin, were he not _Da'tsang_ and an idiot! Also, he is ugly, though one does not necessarily have to look at a man's face whilst one-"

" _Please!_ " objected Feren, "we Ogier do not speak of such things so lightly!"

"Oh, was I embarrassing you, Feren of Stedding Dash? Forgive me. Would you like some of my rabbit?"

"I do not eat meat," Feren answered fastidiously, "but I thank you all the same."

Manda set to work, gutting and skinning the rabbit. Feren tried not to watch. "So, these wolves that observed me as I approached your fire; the gold-eyed maid named Tamei talks to them?" Manda enquired conversationally, whilst arranging the rabbit carcass on one of her arrows and positioning it over the flames.

"She claims to," Feren answered. "I have no reason to doubt her, for all that she doubts much about me… my very existence, for example!"

At which, Mitsu and Tamei emerged from the darkness, arm in arm. They were still in the process of putting their clothes back on. They stopped and hastily resumed their apparel. Manda glanced at Mitsu's companion. "You speak true, Treebrother," she commented, "her eyes _are_ golden."

Mitsu scowled at Manda, and touched the Heron-marked hilt that projected above her shoulder. Tamei touched the obsidian knife at her belt. Manda touched one of her spears. Feren sighed, refusing to reach for his club. If some sort of a fight broke out, he supposed that he would have to intervene. Picking the human females up and shaking some sense into them might be a good idea?

"Who is she?" Tamei asked Mitsu.

"An Aiel," Mitsu responded, shortly.

"Oh. What is that?"

"A Maiden of the Spear!" Manda answered proudly, rising from the log. " _Far Dareis Mai!_ Come, wolf-talking Madlander, Seanchan tribade, share my rabbit!"

Mitsu frowned at this blunt description, Tamei merely shrugged. "One small rabbit will not go very far," she observed, before calling; "Ice!" The large, snow-white she-wolf trotted from the night and gazed up at Tamei with her blue eyes. "More rabbits please, Ice!" The wolf made a whuffing sound and loped away. Tamei stepped over to the fire and sat cross-legged next to it, her curious golden gaze on Manda, who resumed her seat on the log. Mitsu hesitated, then sat down beside her.

"Did you or the Nightwatcher find Thaeus Desiama?" Manda asked the Seanchan assassin.

Mitsu shook her head disgustedly. "We have barely looked for him. In stead, the Chami made us go to a strange, enormous, nasty place where he was supposedly born," she complained.

"The Dragon College was an interesting edifice of the Age of Legends," Feren objected, in his deep voice, "though somewhat disconcerting…"

"You did not go into the monster-brother's room, Gardener! There were things in there that will give me nightmares, for all that I am a Bloodknife!"

Tamei patted Mitsu on the leg soothingly, the two lovers smiled at each other.

Manda smiled also, somewhat slyly. "I see that you have found a 'friend,' Seanchan," she observed, "perhaps your mood and manner will improve now?"

Mitsu scowled at Manda, declining to answer. She did seem less tense than usual, however.

"A rather _noisy_ friend," Feren muttered.

Tamei had the good grace to blush. "Oh dear, could you hear us? Sorry about that!" Ice came out of the darkness, a smaller, black wolf at her side. Each had a dead rabbit gripped lightly in their jaws. They deposited these offerings before Tamei, and she gave their ears a grateful stroking. "Thank you, Ice. Thanks, Night."

"Your wolves, do they all have names?" Manda asked, curiously.

"Oh yes. Though they're not _my_ wolves, they're just wolves. And they have very _long_ names, for the most part. More concepts than names, really…"

"Concepts?" enquired Feren.

"Why, yes… Ice is really more; 'the sheen of frozen water on a still lake as the dawning sun touches it whilst a chill wind gusts past carrying the scent of deer.' And that only comes slightly close to describing it." Tamei eyed Feren. "Are there _really_ more of you strange creatures living in the woods a day's travel from here?"

"Yes," growled Feren, "you shall see my _stedding_ tomorrow, and I would advise you to keep the 'strange creatures' type remarks to yourself, Tamei!"

Tamei laughed. "How queer! The wolves always warned me not to go to that part of the forest, and when I tried to look at it in the Wolf Dream I couldn't, it was like it wasn't there… surely, the world is full of wonders!"

Mitsu smiled at Tamei fondly, whilst the wolf maid prepared the rabbits for cooking and Manda supplied two more arrows for use as spits.

Feren watched them. Humans were so disparate, he considered; these three strange females could not be more different from each other, and yet were of the same species. He longed to be back amongst his own people again. Ogier were reassuringly homogenous.

"So you go to this _stedding_ tomorrow?" Manda asked, while they watched the rabbits slowly cooking.

"At the authoritarian Chami's behest," Mitsu muttered angrily.

"I must find information for him, concerning a dread weapon," added Feren.

"And I am just going because Mitsu is," Tamei commented, giving her Seanchan lover a sultry smile, "though it might be fun." She frowned slightly; "provided the tree-monsters don't kill us all!"

Feren scowled. "There you go again!" he complained, "that is _just_ the sort of remark that will make you deeply unpopular at Stedding Dashai!"

Tamei grinned. "Sorry, Feren! I suppose I must have been amongst the wolves too long, I tend to speak before I think…"

"I find Tamei refreshingly honest," Mitsu stated, leaning down to kiss the golden-eyed maiden.

Feren looked elsewhere, his ears twitching. Manda grinned, rolling her eyes.

"Where will you go, Spear-Maiden?" Mitsu asked, once the lingering kiss was done, "do you come with us?"

Manda shook her head. "I must find the Nightwatcher. Two of my Sept have gone completely mad, the one even more insane than the other, and only _Vron'cor_ can talk sense into them!" She considered. "Well, at least I _hope_ he can…"

"I can find the clawed man for you, if you like," Tamei offered, "and tell him that you're looking for him…"

"How can you do that?" Manda wondered.

"Why, in the Wolf Dream, of course. The World of Dreams, as he calls it."

Manda raised her eyebrows. "You are a Dreamwalker? There are Wise Ones of other Clans than the mighty Shaido who can do this, I have heard; they are the same who told old Sadora of the _Car'a'carn_ and began our miserable quest for us!"

Tamei blinked her golden eyes. "You Aiel are strange folk, by the sound of it!" she remarked.

Manda laughed. "I suppose we are, at that. Though you are strange also, wolf-maiden! But if you can tell the Nightwatcher that I seek him, then I would greatly appreciate it."

Tamei nodded. "I will try later, whilst the World sleeps. Though I must be careful, for the Laughing God walks abroad in the Wolf Dream much of late, and there is another, an old woman of evil aspect who I would be wise to avoid also."

"Be careful, _chalinda,_ " Mitsu cautioned Tamei, caressing her short, ash-blonde hair. "Do not fall afoul of the Armies of the Night, even in dreams…"

"I won't," Tamei assured her, tilting her head and brushing soft lips against Mitsu's hand.

Feren blushed on their behalf. Really, humans were shameless! What if he were to _nose_ with Maram, right in front of them? What would they say then? He blushed even more at having imagined so intimate an activity with the beauteous Ogier maiden… what would his mother say, if she knew?

Manda was eyeing the two lovers, clearly amused.

Feren coughed pointedly. "I hate to interrupt, humans," he rumbled, "but I think that your rabbits are burning." He did, and they were.

* * *

Ellyth was shaken awake from a dreamless slumber by Dara. The Sharan woman was holding a finger to her lips, she could just about make out, though the cell was dark; lit only by a flickering torch on the battlements outside their barred window. Ellyth sat up, yawning. "What..?" she mumbled, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

"There is someone just outside the door!" Dara whispered, "they are moving quietly; I do not think it is the gaoler."

Ellyth arose, feeling relief that Dara had not awoken her for a midnight game of _stones_ , and the pair of prisoners crept to the door of the cell. There was the muted sound of a key being turned in the lock, then the heavy oaken portal, braced with iron, swung slowly open. A small, shadowy figure stood framed in the doorway, holding a hooded lantern in one hand, a large ring of keys in the other. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but it certainly was not N'aethan… nor the gaoler, for that matter. Too short.

"Get dressed!" hissed the mysterious person in somewhat high-pitched tones, "or don't, it's up to you! But either way, we're _leaving!_ " The voice seemed familiar to Ellyth also; where had she heard it before?

Ellyth and Dara glanced at each other in confusion, but then retrieved their dresses from where they hung over a chair, scrambling into them, turning this way and that to help each other with the buttons. When they looked back at the doorway, their short rescuer was gone and it stood empty and open. They cautiously ventured into the hallway outside. The cell door opposite was in the process of being pulled open by their mystery saviour; he had his back to them and by the light of a guttering candle in a wall bracket, Ellyth was startled to see that he wore the many-patched, colourful cloak of a Gleeman! The man spoke quietly to the occupants of the cell, then turned to look at them with pale, blue eyes. He had fair hair and a large nose… and Ellyth had seen him before, in the Throne Room. Her startlement increased.

"Rags?" Ellyth whispered. It was indeed the court fool who had sat at the feet of the High Princess during their audience.

Rags grinned. "That's not my _real_ name," he confided softly, "it's just that the Princess is a simple child for the most part… she needed to call me something that was easy to remember!" He had shed his odd clothing sewn all over with silver bells, in favour of a dark coat and britches tucked into calf boots. The Gleeman's cloak was an incongruous addition to his wardrobe. Rags stood aside to allow Renn to exit the cell, followed by an old woman with silvery hair twined into long braids. Renn's eyes widened at the sight of Ellyth and she rushed forward to embrace her friend. Dara and the old woman regarded each other neutrally.

Ellyth glanced around the stone-flagged hallway; "but where is Shrina?" she wondered.

"This way. Come along," answered Rags, or whatever his name was, leading them further down the dark corridor, lined with heavy oak doors. The patches on his cloak fluttered as he moved; the colourful garment looked rather old and threadbare, Ellyth noted, unlike that of Roth Blucha, which the conceited young Gleeman always took pains to make as presentable as possible.

Rags certainly seemed to know his way around down here, he stopped at a particular, iron-bound door, selected a key from the ring he carried and unlocked it. Pulling the door open, he raised the lantern, unshielding it a little. Ellyth peered past his shoulder, and beheld Shrina, kneeling on all fours, in the process of feeding a morsel of bread to a large, black rat! The rat squeaked with alarm at the sight of them and scampered away into the shadows.

Shrina rose to her knees, shielding her eyes from the glare of the lantern. "Who's there?" she demanded.

"Shh! Not so loud!" hissed Rags.

"It is us," Ellyth whispered, as noisily as she dared, "Ellyth and Renn!"

Shrina got to her feet. She was wearing a rather brief shift of garish, crimson silk, that clung revealingly to her fine figure; Ellyth noticed that Rags was looking her up and down with every sign of approval. _Men!_ She slipped past him and retrieved Shrina's green woollen gown from the sleeping mat, pushing it into her friend's arms.

"Get dressed!" Ellyth hissed.

Shrina did so. "Is this some kind of a rescue?" she enquired indistinctly, whilst pulling the gown down over her head.

"Yes, I think so," Ellyth answered, helping Shrina with her buttons. "What were you doing with that horrid rodent?" she added.

"Feeding him, of course! And Whiskers isn't horrid, he's rather friendly, and very intelligent… for a rat."

"You would like to stay here with him, yes?"

"No! But I shall certainly miss the cute little fellow. Where's Renn?"

"Here!" whispered Renn from the doorway, "come along, Shrina, stop dawdling!"

They filed out of the cell, Ellyth first, Shrina following. Shrina glanced back at the shadows where the large black rat was presumably lurking; "bye, Whiskers," she called, sadly.

"Whiskers?" Renn repeated.

"Well, I had to call him _something._ "

Rags was eyeing them, expressionless. "Truly, the ways of Aes Sedai are passing strange," he commented quietly. Then, he turned and headed down the hall, leaving the three young Sisters little choice but to follow. Dara and the old woman brought up the rear.

The hallway opened out into a small stone chamber, lit by more candles, some kind of guard-room presumably. The gaoler was there, slumped in a chair, head thrown back, snoring. An overturned wooden flagon lay near one outstretched hand, the contents spilled onto the floor. The women regarded him cautiously, but Rags just grinned, declaring; "it's quite alright, I drugged his ale. Nothing lethal, mind you, just sleep-herb… when he wakes up, he'll have a headache and a deal of explaining to do… but he _will_ wake."

Ellyth was glad of this, the gaoler had been tolerably kind to them whilst they were in captivity, though she did regret asking him for the stones board…

"Hold on," muttered Shrina, staring at their rescuer, "I know you; you're _Rags!_ "

"That's not his real name," Renn informed her.

"So what _is_ your real name, then?" Shrina demanded.

The short man bowed low, flourishing his cloak, the multi-hued patches fluttering. "Jeb Simanon, Master Gleeman, at your service," he announced, grandly.

"We're being rescued by a _Gleeman?_ " Shrina muttered, as though not wishing to believe it.

"A _Master_ Gleeman, if you please!" Jeb corrected her. "I wore my old cloak, as this is a special occasion!" he added.

Ellyth frowned, confused. "How did you come to be here, in this Land of the Madmen, Master Gleeman?" she enquired. Never mind what he was doing posing as a court fool in the castle of descendants of Artur Hawkwing's armies…

"Oh, I came to this insane place a _long_ time ago," Jeb answered airily, "tis a rather protracted story and we simply don't have time for it now, though stories are my stock in trade, after all!" His expression sobered. "The guards will be by soon, on their rounds. Come." He started for the corner of the room, where a square wooden hatch was set amongst the flagstones, but Renn stopped him.

"Wait! What of Jabal? I'm not leaving without him!"

"Nor I, the Twins!"

"I must find my Hamadi!"

" _Women!_ " Jebedah muttered under his breath, then smiled slyly. "Did you not know? Your Warders and whatnot have already made their escape! You assuredly heard the warning bells?"

Ellyth nodded, she _had_ heard loud chimes and the sounds of a disturbance earlier that evening…

"Aebel and Blaek left without me?" Shrina muttered, in tones of disbelief.

"They had little choice; they got out of the stockade somehow, but the alarm was raised and they had to flee in one of the canoes or face recapture… death, even." Jeb glanced at Dara. "The young fellow with the face tattooed like yours took care of a pursuing war-canoe, and its crew. He used the Power to _explode_ them!"

Dara smiled grimly. "Good. That pleases me. I taught him that battle-weave myself."

Ellyth was not sure why, but she did not entirely trust this odd Master Gleeman. Perhaps it was because he smiled too much… However, they had little choice but to follow him, for now. She watched as Jeb levered up the hatch with a grunt of effort, revealing a wooden ladder stretching down into the darkness. He looked at them expectantly. The old woman was the first to move, spry for her age, swiftly descending.

"That's Malissa," Renn explained to Ellyth and Shrina, "the ancient Wilder I tried to tell you about before… why, she claims to be-"

"Hush!" hissed Jeb, listening intently. In the distance, the tramp of boots could be heard, approaching. "We're out of time! Quick… _move!_ "

The Aes Sedai and the lone Ayyad hastened into the hatchway and down the ladder. Jeb came last, shutting and bolting the hatch behind him. His unshielded lantern lit their way down into a large cellar, lined with enormous barrels, stacked on their sides. The rescued women stood on the rather dirty stone floor, wondering what to do next. The Master Gleeman showed them. Stepping away from the ladder, he moved swiftly to the massive cask at the end of the row. Putting the lantern down on the floor, he fiddled with something on the round surface of the barrel, which stood taller than his head. There was a muted clicking sound as a catch released and he swung the front of the barrel open on a hidden hinge, revealing that it was empty, and that the rear end of the barrel opened onto a rough-hewn tunnel, bored through the solid rock of the castle's foundations.

"In you go, my Ladies," Jeb prompted, with a reassuring smile that Ellyth did not find particularly reassuring. Still… they could not stay here, seemingly. By now, the guards would have discovered the empty cells and a new alarm would have been raised. It was only a matter of time before they were searched for, down here. Hitching up her skirts, Ellyth scrambled into the hollow barrel and thence into the narrow tunnel. The others followed, the Master Gleeman bringing up the rear, lantern raised. He swung the round, wooden barrel-top shut behind him, sealing them in. "It's a fair walk," Jeb told them, "but it brings us out at the extreme north of the island. You'll be able to channel there."

They stared at him. "We will?" Renn asked, doubtfully.

Jeb nodded. "Aye. The cursed Hawx think their Spire covers the whole Isle, but there's a blind spot at the far end."

"Why are you helping us?" Shrina demanded, "you're that spoilt Princesses' court fool!"

"A _spy_ is what I am," Jeb corrected her, "amongst other things…"

"But why risk your life on our account?" Ellyth insisted, "were you caught doing this, you would be executed along with us, yes?"

"Oh, at the very least!" Jeb answered, grinning, then assumed an air of solemnity. "You are Aes Sedai," he said, simply. "I haven't been home in a long time, but I _am_ a Borderlander. I know what is right; I cannot leave you in the hands of these savages, to face a dark fate!" He moved past them, leading the way along the tunnel. "Come. There will be a ship waiting, to take you to safety." Malissa followed, Renn trailing along behind. The others lingered for a moment.

"I don't trust him," Dara whispered to Ellyth, "he is too glib."

"He smiles too much," Ellyth agreed, "we must be cautious."

"Why have you got a tattooed face?" Shrina enquired of Dara, blithely ignoring their concerns.

"I am Ayyad," Dara responded proudly, then sighed. "You don't know what that is, do you, barbarian?"

Shrina frowned. "Did she just call me a 'barbarian?'" she asked Ellyth.

The Amadici Sister raised her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. "She calls _everyone_ that, do not take it personally, Shrina! Dara is a sort of Sharan Aes Sedai," she went on to explain, "they are called 'Ayyad' and they tattoo their faces to distinguish themselves from ordinary folk."

"Shara!" remarked Shrina, "where the silk comes from?"

"Yes!" snapped Dara, "where the bloody silk comes from!"

"Hurry up!" called Renn, from further down the tunnel, "you're getting left behind…"

The subterranean passageway went on forever, seemingly, and Ellyth, unused to walking long distances, was feeling somewhat winded and footsore by the time they reached the end of it. The tunnel emerged at the back of a long cave, floored with damp sand. Ellyth could hear pounding surf, smell salt in the air. She took a few steps towards the cave-mouth, then stopped, eyes widening.

For the first time in days, it was as though a great weight had been lifted from her… with the easy familiarity of long-practice, she opened herself to _saidar_ , touched the True Source. A wave of sweetness flowed into her; it felt wonderful! Turning to the others, she saw that they too glowed with the One Power. Shrina and Renn were grinning, Dara smiling with satisfaction, the ancient Wilder Malissa chuckling with pleasure.

"It feels like being young again!" Malissa remarked.

Jeb Simanon, Master Gleeman, eyed them with perhaps a touch of regret. "Enjoy it while you can, ladies," he commented, softly.

Ellyth was on the verge of asking him what he meant by this… and then, something immensely strong slammed into place between her and the Source. The _saidar_ disappeared as though it had never been, leaving her bereft and powerless once more. It was almost more than she could bear…

"We've been Shielded!" Shrina shouted, angrily.

"Yes, you all have," Jeb agreed, "by _me_ , in point of fact."

"You can channel?" Ellyth gasped.

"Of course I can flaming channel!" Jeb revealed, "why, I can't remember a time when I couldn't!"

"But… you're a Gleeman!" Renn cried, with disbelief.

" _Master_ Gleeman. What of it? I've lived a long time, I've been many things. I was even Court Bard to the False Dragon, Davian! That was probably my best job…" Jeb was ignoring them while he spoke, watching the mouth of the cave expectantly.

"But Davian lived more than seventeen hundred years ago!" Renn argued, "how could you possibly..?"

"Like I said, it's a long story… ah, here they are. Right on time."

Shadowy figures moved in the night, entering the mouth of the cave, approaching stealthily.

Ellyth strained against the Shield with all her might, but it would not budge. "How are you able to Shield all five of us?" she demanded. Jeb laughed. The mirth had an unhinged quality to it, that set Ellyth's teeth on edge.

"Because I'm immensely powerful!" Jeb answered, then shrugged. "Though this helps, admittedly…" He reached into a pocket of his patched cloak and pulled out a life-sized golden hand, index finger extended. He waved it at Ellyth. "A _sa'angreal_ , made for male Aes Sedai to use in the Age of Legends. One of a pair, naturally! Nearly as powerful as Callandor itself. Any more questions? No?" Jeb glanced at Malissa, something almost like sympathy in his eyes. "I'm truly sorry about this, but I don't need you. You understand?"

Malissa regarded the dangerous male-channeler levelly and without fear. "I know who you are, now," she whispered. Jeb pointed the finger of the _sa'angreal_ at her. "You're-" The ancient Wilder gasped, her eyes rolling up in her head and she collapsed bonelessly to the sand.

Renn cried out and rushed to her side, but there was nothing that she could do. "She's dead!" Renn wailed, "you _killed_ her!"

Jeb nodded. "I did." He eyed Malissa's corpse with a touch of respect. "She was brave as Barashelle herself," he whispered.

Ellyth tensed as the approaching men came into the light of the lantern. There were a dozen of them, bare chests and arms tattooed with red symbols that she did not recognise, fur cloaks swathing their backs and shoulders, ragged britches cut off at the knees, feet bare. All wore crude leather masks, dyed red, with smiling mouths carved into them beneath the eye holes. None seemed to be carrying weapons, but each had a bronze torc about his neck. As one, they bowed low to Jeb. He laughed again, and bowed back, fluttering the patches on his cloak.

"Would you like a song or a story, boys?" Jeb enquired, sardonically.

The masked men laughed too, the sound carrying the same vaguely insane quality as that of the man who was clearly their Master.

"Assume their Shields," Jeb commanded them, "two to each Aes Sedai, just in case, the tattooed one as well. She interests me."

Eight of the men turned to stare with dark eyes at the captives. Ellyth felt her Shield slip slightly, then return, as strong as ever. These red-masked brigands could all channel powerfully too! She fought the panic that arose within her, at being surrounded by fearsome males who touched the Source.

Jeb addressed one of his men, a burly individual who was not one of those maintaining a Shield. "Take them back to the boat, Harper, then do exactly as I told you in the Dream last night. I must return before they notice I'm missing."

"Yes, Lord." Harper's voice was deep, he spoke the Vulgar with a rough accent.

Jeb glanced at his men. "Why are there only twelve of you? I specified thirteen; a nice, traditional number! Who is missing?"

"Strummer, Lord."

"Where is the fool?"

"Dead, Lord. The _chumira_ slew him, near to the _Collam Aman._ All of Strummer's men too, but for one whom he spared, to bring you a message."

"Did he now?" Jeb tapped a finger against his lips, thoughtfully. "What message?"

Harper hesitated, then spoke with reluctance; "he will end your miserable existence, Lord, your reign of tyranny also."

Jeb laughed long and loud at this, madness evident in his mirth. Then, he took something out of another cloak pocket and slipped it over his face. He had his back to Ellyth, she could not see what it was…

"Ah, that is better," Jeb or whoever he was commented, "I can feel my aching head easing, the chaos draining away…"

"Who _are_ you?" Ellyth demanded, desperation in her tones.

Jebedah Chul Simanon turned, revealing that he now wore an ancient-looking bronze mask, fashioned in the likeness of a smiling fox's face. Pale, blue eyes stared at her through the holes in the metal. He inclined his head mockingly.

"Don't you _know_ , Aes Sedai?" Jeb's voice echoed within the confines of his mask. "Why, I am the Laughing God, of course!" And he threw back his head, and _laughed_.


	7. Chapter 6 : The Castle

**Gleeman Bob writes:** _chapter 6, which is quite long and contains two flashbacks, is called 'The Castle.' of course, as we are all aware, this is also the title of a book by the unusual Franz Kafka. I have a copy somewhere, but have never got around to reading it. life is depressing enough already, without adding Kafka to the mix! but I HAVE read The Metamorphosis, which I thought was quite amusing, though am not sure if that was the desired effect... 'as Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic Gleeman!' but I digress... all I wanted to say was that since most of the action takes place in the foul fortress of the evil Hawx, 'The Castle' seemed an appropriate title to use. well, I had to call it SOMETHING! and I hope that the unquiet shade of Franz Kafka will forgive me for being so unoriginal._

 _probably not, though..._

 _Walk in the Light!_

* * *

Arachnae Kirikil, born Maigret Dahil, only child of a lowly thatcher in the village of Wolder, hidden within the long-dead nation of Mar Haddon – now known merely as Haddon Mirk – stood on the beach, gazing expectantly out to sea. The Dead Sea. It was aptly named, for nothing lived in it, so far as she was aware; no fish, eels or crustaceans of any kind. Sea monsters possibly, she did not know if such existed, but secretly hoped that they did. She would ask Duadh… he would know, if anyone did. Old maps of the oceans had always fascinated her as a girl, and these atlases of the deep had often been festooned with imaginative renderings of terrifying and enormous creatures, fanged and scaled, their sinuous bodies rippling amidst the endless waves. But the monsters were just drawn on the maps for the purpose of decoration, she supposed. Probably, there were no such things. Sharks and lionfish were real enough, of course, giant squid too, but she doubted if any of them could survive in the Dead Sea either. The influence of the Great Blight, most likely.

Nearby, the ancient column of the Portal Stone rose from the water. Using it, even with the aid of her _sa'angreal_ , had drained Arachnae significantly; she had had to spend the rest of the day in bed. Ranim had brought her several cups of her favourite herb tea and had even sung a few pleasant ballads to calm her frayed nerves, which she knew he did not like to do, since it reminded him of the Tuatha'an. Such a thoughtful boy! Most people who encountered Ranim saw only his dark side, often but briefly at that, but Arachnae knew that the youthful assassin was capable of acts of kindness also. Why, the day before, one of the foolish Shadowsworn brigands had stupidly wandered into the damp forest of the Blight to relieve himself, and had been bitten by something extremely poisonous. Ranim had practically run to swiftly and eagerly cut the unlucky fellow's throat, thus sparing him an agonisingly slow death! A very decent gesture on his part… most considerate…

Arachnae glanced at Ranim, standing patiently by her side. "How many is it now, dear?" she enquired.

Ranim did not have to ask her to be more specific, merely answered; "fifty-seven, Dread Mistress."

Arachnae smiled at him approvingly. "When you've killed one-hundred in my service, I'll gift you with something even better than the knife," she promised.

Ranim raised his reddish eyebrows slightly, but otherwise betrayed little reaction, his face as blank as ever. Though clearly, he was wondering what could possibly be better than his Thakan'dar-forged knife, which Arachnae knew he treasured. He carefully sharpened and oiled the blade before bed each night. Arachnae was unsure of what to reward Ranim with herself. Perhaps she would take her young assassin and bodyguard to Shayol Ghul, to swear his Oaths to the Shadow properly? To stand on the precipice above the lake of fire, to inhale the Great Lord of the Dark's breath and, if you were especially fortunate, to hear His exultant, terrifying voice… there was nothing quite like it.

Arachnae returned her attention to the sea. In the Dream last night, Irmilla had told her to expect them today… and there, on the horizon, a dark shape that had not been present moments before. Arachnae squinted, but her eyes were not so good as they had been, a hundred or so years previously. Instead, she embraced the Source, feeling _saidar_ flow into her with its customary revivifying sensations, and immediately her senses became sharper, her eyesight clearer. The shape resolved itself into a two-masted ship, fast approaching. It must be them, no-one else would dare to enter the Dead Sea, not even the Atha'an Miere. Those that sailed in the Light, at least. Of course, the Sea Folk that served the Shadow were a different kettle of fish…

"What is that?" asked Zaradin, leader of the Samma N'Sei, shading his eyes & staring out to sea.

Arachnae eyed Zaradin with disfavour. She had forgotten that the disconcerting Aielman was there, he moved so quietly, barely even seemed to breathe.

"It is a ship," answered Ranim shortly, seeing that his Mistress did not choose to impart this information.

Zaradin's brow furrowed above his red veil. "A… ship," he muttered uncertainly, evidently unfamiliar with the term. "How does it move across the waves like that?" he further wished to know.

"With sails; large pieces of canvas atop the masts, that catch the wind and propel the craft," Ranim explained, adding; "you are remarkably ignorant, even for an Aiel savage."

Zaradin promptly lowered his veil and bared his sharp, filed teeth at Ranim in something that only approximated a smile.

Ranim continued levelly; "I suppose it is also a result of you being Turned to the Shadow… I hear that the process drains the intellect."

"I was _not_ turned, Lost One!" Zaradin protested, "I already ran with the Shadow before I began to channel. And I know what a 'ship' is, I read of it in a book, once… I have just never _seen_ one, that is all!"

Arachnae blinked. So Zaradin had _not_ been Turned, unlike his two compatriots, who quite obviously bore the mark of Myrddraal and the accursed Black Ajah upon them… this was news to her. Zaradin would bear watching… She noted that Ranim was scowling and touching the hilt of his deadly blade, that Zaradin's grip on his spear was white-knuckled… he was probably holding _saidin_ too, but she was unsure. How she wished she had a paralis-net to tell her such things, but they were incredibly rare. Cadsuane Melaidhrin had one, her sources informed her; and she would dearly love to take it from that interfering old Aes Sedai's corpse!

"Play nicely, boys, or I shall spank some sense into the pair of you!" Arachnae warned the two feuding killers.

Zaradin frowned, but raised his red veil. "As you say, Wise One," he muttered, voice muffled behind the cloth.

"Stop calling me that! Do not name young Ranim a 'Lost One' either, he doesn't like it! And you, pumpkin, don't refer to Zaradin as a 'savage' and take your hand off that knife!"

Ranim did so. "Yes Dread Mistress," he said, flatly.

While the two had been arguing, the ship had drawn steadily closer. It was moving at quite a pace, all sails set. Duadh _was_ aware that the shallows of the bay were well-stocked with submerged rocks? After all, it was upon one of these that her quarry had run aground, courtesy of the Shadowrunner Jahdi. Arachnae vaguely regretted her loss, she had been a useful tool, a valuable enemy-within the adversary's camp. After the abortive battle that had seen the Dragonspawn and Aes Sedai escape her clutches, Ranim had found Jahdi's scorched body, washed up on the beach. Arachnae was not much given to sentiment, but had ordered some Trollocs to dig a deep pit and had buried Jahdi standing, facing the sunset, as she believed was the Aiel custom. She had owed her that much…

"The fool is coming in too fast," Arachnae muttered, but even as she spoke, distantly heard a shouted command and saw the steerswoman aboard the _Stormchaser_ spin the wheel hard over; the ship came up into the wind, sails flapping furiously. Clan Waketa crew scrambled aloft like so many agile spiders, reefing and furling, whilst at the same time, a heavy anchor splashed down into the sea. The bare-masted ship bobbed on the waves, stationary, just short of some jagged rocks. It was an impressive feat of seamanship, but no less than Arachnae expected from a people who spent their lives voyaging the oceans.

And there was the Sailmaster, Duadh din Retif Blue Ring, balanced easily upon the bowsprit, bare feet splayed. He raised a tattooed hand in greeting, the other, as usual, clutching his deadly axe. He cupped the hand to his mouth and shouted; "greetings, Mother of Storms! How goes it?"

At that distance, Duadh's voice was a little indistinct; Arachnae used the Power to amplify her own response. "Fair enough, good Duadh… did you bring me what I asked for?"

Duadh grinned, gold teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Would I dare to return if I did not?! Our passenger has your cargo, he is below, being sick again most probably… even for a Shorebound, he is a very poor sailor!"

Irmilla joined Duadh, standing on the foredeck, waving a lace handkerchief. "Hello, grandmama! I see that you have decorated the rocks with spitted Halfmen… they look splendid, I must say!"

With satisfaction, Arachnae glanced up at the dozen dead Myrddraal impaled on stakes atop the cliffs above, then turned back to the _Stormchaser_. "You are looking well, my dear," her voice resounded, "but don't you think you had better put your _blouse_ back on?"

Irmilla blushed, covering bare breasts with her hands. "Sorry, I completely forgot!" she shouted, "the rest of the girls were all doing it, so I thought I'd give it a try! Rather chilly!" She disappeared below. The steerswoman and other females of Duadh's crew were likewise covering up, now that they were in sight of land. Arachnae frowned. She did not approve, but different cultures had differing customs, after all. When in Shara, one did as the Sharans did. Not that she had ever been there, all she knew of the mysterious land was that it was where the silk came from…

"These Atha'an Miere have no shame," Zaradin muttered disapprovingly, "and I hear that after they have done the deed, the females _kill_ the males…"

"An understandable response, with some men," Arachnae observed tartly, then cackled loudly. She was not to know that it was hardly an original joke. Ranim attempted to smile at her jest, but the best he could manage was a sort of threatening grimace. Still, at least he was trying… Zaradin might have been smiling, but it was impossible to tell with the veil in place. Probably not, though.

Activity on board the _Stormchaser_ ; a longboat was rapidly lowered to the water, several Shadowsworn Atha'an Miere dropping nimbly down into it from the deck, manning the oars. Duadh came next, giving a helping hand to Irmilla, who Arachnae was pleased to note was now fully dressed. Lastly came a tall, pale man in dark robes, attended by a servant; he scrambled awkwardly down into the boat. The servant followed with lithe grace, despite being burdened with a small wooden chest. Arachnae peered at him… or her… it was hard to tell, because the dark-robed man was being followed by what could only be a Zomara.

Arachnae scowled. She did not care for those particular spawn of the Shadow, their ability to read minds and anticipate needs was altogether disconcerting… still, provided she had been brought the information she required, she did not care overmuch.

The longboat set out for the beach, the oarsmen and oarswomen pulling hard, Duadh at the tiller skilfully weaving the craft in between the large rocks that punctuated the waves. They reached the shore in due course, Clan Waketa crew leaping out and hauling the boat further up out of the water. All sported large, garish tattoos on their chests or backs, depicting a variety of dangerous sea creatures.

Irmilla stepped gracefully from the bow, her slippers digging into the damp shingle, and rushed up the beach to embrace Arachnae, kissing her on both leathery cheeks. "It is so good to see you again, grandmama!" she gushed.

"It has only been a week, my chickadee," Arachnae pointed-out.

Irmilla pulled a face, her pretty features registering disgust. "A week aboard that vile ship, cooped-up with the horrid Duadh and his ghastly people, can seem like a lifetime!" she complained.

Arachnae chuckled. "Well, it is good to see you too, my dear. And I have need of you…"

Irmilla glanced at the Portal Stone and nodded. "Yes, I expect that you do," she commented. Her dark eyes moved to Ranim, who scowled at her. She contented herself with a disparaging sniff, then examined Zaradin with interest. "Who is this, grandmama? An Aielman?"

"Samma N'Sei," Zaradin growled, looking Irmilla up and down. She had changed out of her skirt and as usual, her lush form was sheathed in a tight Domani silken gown, which while not revealing much in the way of coppery skin, left very little to the imagination… though clearly, Zaradin's imagination was hard at work.

"Irmilla Nadona," purred Irmilla, holding out a slender hand. After a slight hesitation, Zaradin took it, as though wondering what to do with it. "My, but you are a _big_ fellow," Irmilla further commented, somewhat salaciously, "may I see your face?"

"I only unveil when I kill," Zaradin explained, "do you wish me to wake you?"

"Only in time for breakfast!" Irmilla answered, with a girlish giggle. "So you even wear the veil in _bed?_ " she added, suggestively.

"What a man does in his bed is his own business," Zaradin responded, releasing Irmilla's hand.

Arachnae laughed softly at this exchange, Ranim continued to scowl. In the meantime, Duadh had come striding up the beach, the hard pebbles no trouble to his tough-soled bare feet. Arachnae was pleased to see that he had left his silly talking bird on the ship; he knew that she did not like the creature. It had the irritating habit of repeatedly squawking the word 'witch!' in her presence…

Beside Duadh paced the tall man in the dark robes. His face was pale and cadaverous, his hair collar-length and jet black, as was the pointed, carefully-trimmed beard that framed his mouth, set in a grim line. The eyes, though… they were what held the attention, hinted that he was no mere man, despite his human appearance, but a creature of the Shadow, like the androgynous Zomara that followed him with the chest. His eyes were completely black, as though the pupil had expanded to eclipse the iris and whites of his sensory organs. Perhaps they had? Arachnae stared. She had encountered Couriers of the Shadow Library before, of course, but not one like this… this was something new. Something of which she had been unaware, until now. This concerned her… angered her, also.

The black-eyed Courier stopped before her and merely nodded, whereas Duadh bowed. In addition to his black sash and bright red trews, the Clan Waketa Sailmaster wore a silk cloak of the same blood-coloured hue draped over his bare shoulders, and he flourished it as he made his obedience, a little like a Gleeman. As he straightened, the fierce yellow eyes of the virulent blue octopus tattooed on his bare chest glared at the world at large.

"Well met, Duadh," Arachnae said to him, then returned her attention to the Courier. The black eyes that watched her were more soul-less than those of a Draghkar, a Grey Man, even… he did not seem inclined to speak first, so Arachnae addressed him, using the Shadow Tongue. " _Welcome to the Dead Shore, Courier. Do you have that which was requested?_ "

The Courier smiled thinly, answering in the same dark speech. His voice was hollow and sepulchral, a little like that of a Myrddraal. " _Assuredly I do, Little Spider._ "

Arachnae frowned. She resented the name, though it had been given her by those who stood even higher than she in the counsels of the Shadow… but that did not mean she was about to let some lowly Courier say it to her face! " _Call me that again and I will have Ranim here pop out one of your peculiar eyes with his knife, that I might better examine it!_ " she hissed.

The Courier continued to smile. " _My eyes were a gift from the Great Lord, I think me that our Master would prefer that they remain in my head…_ " He shrugged his bony shoulders. " _But it shall be as you wish, Friend. How should I address you, then?_ "

" _With_ respect, _if you ever wish to see the Shadow Library again! Stop wasting my time, I don't have much of it left! The_ books?"

The Courier gestured with a pale hand and the Zomara stepped forward with the unearthly grace of its kind. It wore tight-fitting hose and shirt, both of dark silk, and black, pointed boots. It had a strange kind of beauty, androgyne and genderless… but its eyes were those of something dead. Arachnae wondered if a Gholam had eyes like that… well, she would probably never know. The Zomara bent smoothly, placing the small wooden chest it carried on the shingle. It gave Arachnae an infuriatingly knowing glance, then flipped open the lid. The chest was filled with ancient, leather-bound tomes. Some of that leather was suspiciously pale and delicate, and had not come from any cow or pig. The fashion for binding books in human skin had been prevalent under the Shadow during the years of the Collapse … it excited Arachnae to think that these volumes could be _that_ old. She gazed upon the treasury of arcane knowledge with great satisfaction, trying not to let it show on her face. The Zomara knew, however; it smirked, then moved lithely back to stand behind its Master.

The Courier reverted to the Vulgar speech, his tone pedantic; "this is everything that we could muster on Portal Stones at short notice; primarily, their use and location, with additional speculation as to their provenance, which in my opinion is largely spurious." A note of disapproval entered the Courier's deathly voice; "these are _reference_ works; they should never have left the Library. It is highly irregular! I shall be in attendance at all times, whilst you study this information. Then, the books shall be returned forthwith."

 _They_ might be returning to the Shadow Library, Arachnae thought, but _you_ might not, Friend!

The Zomara raised a delicate eyebrow and smiled at her. It clearly knew what she was thinking…

"Stop looking inside my head, vile creature!" Arachnae cursed it, then turned to the Courier; "send that smirking monstrosity back to the ship! I do not wish to see it again, it displeases me!"

The Courier spread his hands in false apology. "But the Zomara is a gift from Ishamael himself… it is to remain here, in service to you."

"To _spy_ on me, more like!"

"I'll not spy on you, Mistress," lisped the Zomara softly, "I wish only to serve." It nodded at Zaradin. "The spying is _his_ task, methinks!"

Zaradin uttered a muffled curse behind his red veil, before composing himself. Merciless green eyes fixed on the Zomara, which smiled at him provokingly. "I know not what that effete _thing_ is, but I should like to slay it," Zaradin growled.

"And I would like you to," Arachnae responded agreeably, "but a gift is a gift, after all."

"It is a Zomara," Ranim told Zaradin, "I encountered their kind when I went north on behalf of the Dread Mistress, to attend a gathering of the Shadow." He eyed the Zomara darkly. "They should never have been made," he muttered, disapprovingly.

"Well, they _were,_ " Arachnae stated equably, then scowled. "Enough of this time-wasting! The appointed hour approaches." She turned to Zaradin. "Summon your men."

"They are behind you," Zaradin responded. He was definitely smiling behind his veil, this time.

Arachnae looked over her shoulder. Two tall, spear-bearing Eye-Blinders wearing red veils and the cadin'sor stood uncomfortably close, seeming to have appeared out of thin air. Ranim cursed softly, touching the hilt of his knife. "I will see that the talent of the Samma N'Sei to move surreptitiously is put to good use, ere long," Arachnae muttered, with grudging admiration, "but it is your _other_ talent, for channeling, that I intend to make use of now…"

The Eye-Blinders looked at each other mutely. Zaradin spoke; "we are not as strong in the Power as you, Dread One… and we only know killing weaves."

Arachnae smiled, showing most of her teeth; despite her great age, she yet had a full set. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. _I_ shall be in control… tell me, Zaradin, have you ever been linked in a Circle before?"

The tide had ebbed further whilst they spoke, and the Portal Stone now stood well clear of the water. Five of them were gathered around it on the damp sand; Arachnae, Irmilla and the three Samma N'Sei.

Irmilla had not wanted to ruin her fine velvet slippers so had removed them, venturing onto the wet sand in her bare feet. She frowned. "Open yourselves to _saidin_ ," she said again, impatiently. The Eye-Blinders, who had lowered their veils at Arachnae's command, performed this first step without any trouble; it was the next part that was proving difficult… "Is everyone holding _saidin?_ " The Samma N'Sei nodded. "Good. Now, all but release it and prepare to surrender control to me." The Eye-Blinders frowned. This was not something that they wished to do, clearly. "Ease back until you are just on the verge of drawing _saidin_ , then let me assume command over it..."

Arachnae waited, trying not to let her annoyance and impatience show. Her _sa'angreal_ was a heavy weight in her belt-pouch, Irmilla was holding her _angreal_ and with the Shadow-sworn male channelers, there should be more than enough power to open the Portal Stone again, to the place to which her ability to read residues had told her that her quarry had escaped… wherever that was. Hopefully, her returning Shadowspawn scouts would be able to tell her. She had specified two days; then the Myrddraal and his patrol were to gather by the other Portal Stone and await its opening. They had better have some good news for her, or further staked corpses would soon adorn the cliffs!

Eventually, the Samma N'Sei were able to follow Irmilla's instructions sufficiently for her to link with them. Arachnae joined the Circle with easy familiarity and with the same practiced ease, Irmilla passed control over to her. It felt strange to Arachnae, being connected with these Shadowrunning savages. Irmilla's undercurrent of selfish ambition and steely resolve was familiar to her, but the fanatical purpose and overwhelming hatred of the Eye-Blinders was not. Shutting out the emotions of the others, which could only serve to distract her, and holding the two requisite symbols uppermost in her mind, Arachnae began to pour raw Power, _saidar_ and _saidin_ intermixed, as it had been in the Age of Legends, into the Portal Stone.

From a safe distance, Ranim, Duadh and the Courier watched. The Zomara, Arachnae had dismissed back to her tent with the books. Hopefully, she could later arrange for it to have some kind of a fatal accident… Duadh had sent the longboat back to the Stormchaser, but many of his people watched curiously from the decks also. The arcane stone seemed to shine with energy as five channelers, an angreal and a sa'angreal did their work. The portal from one ancient artefact to another opened.

Arachnae's anticipation gradually faded as for moment after long moment, nothing whatsoever emerged. Wherever she had sent her Shadowspawn searchers to, it seemed that they would not be returning. Disappointed, Arachnae was on the verge of closing the portal, since the amount of Power they were utilising could burn them out or kill them if they held it much longer… but then, with a loud caw, a large raven flew through the shimmering light surrounding the Portal Stone, travelling from one distant place to another, leaving a few moulted black feathers hanging in the air. It was the same Shadow-Eye that the Myrddraal had taken with it. The raven circled them a couple of times, then perched on Irmilla's shoulder. She flinched and scowled.

"Eurgh! Get off, you beastly bird!"

"Leave it be, Milly-dear. It may have valuable information."

When nothing further emerged through the Portal Stone, Arachnae sighed, and released the Source. Because they were linked to her and under her control, the others did too. The Stone became quiescent, Arachnae felt as though a great weight had been lifted from her. She regarded the raven with disfavour. So did Irmilla.

"If this horrid carrion crow defecates on my new frock, I shall wring its filthy neck!" Irmilla grumbled.

"Ranim!" Arachnae shouted, "fetch me a Myrddraal! I wish to question this raven, it may have seen something of use."

"Any particular Halfman, Dread Mistress?" Ranim responded.

"No! They're all the same, aren't they? Just bring me the first one you find…"

"No need," called out the Courier in his hollow tones, "I can commune with the _Seia'Shadar_ , tis a talent I have." He sounded vaguely smug, and well he might, it was a singular ability and one that Arachnae wished she possessed herself.

The Courier came striding over, now that the Portal Stone was safe to approach once more, Ranim and Duadh walking behind, curiosity in their eyes. The Samma N'Sei watched closely also, light-coloured eyes staring above the red veils, which they had raised again. With every sign of relief, Irmilla let the Courier take the Shadow-raven from her shoulder and place it on his own. It squawked and preened its flight feathers with a large, cruel beak, then cocked its head to one side, gazing at the Courier, their black eyes a match for each other's. In fact, Arachnae considered, swathed in his dark robes and taking into account his gaunt frame, black hair and unwinking, ebon gaze, the Courier somewhat resembled the bird. No wonder he could talk to them… they probably thought he was a raven too!

For several heartbeats, the two stared at each other, unmoving, then the Courier raised his head and the raven sprang from his shoulder with a beat of wings and another loud caw… it circled, then flapped steadily up toward the cliffs, to join its brethren in feeding on ripe Myrddraal meat.

"Well?" Arachnae prompted.

"Your patrol will not be returning, they are all dead, and any information they had died with them." The Courier considered a moment. "Though I misdoubt they had any, it all happened rather fast, soon after they arrived."

"Who killed them?" Ranim wanted to know, "was it the Dragonspawn or the Aiel?"

The Courier shook his head. "Neither. It was a _Souvraniene_ ," he revealed, "a male-channeler, insane and rotting away. He burned the Myrddraal and Trollocs, then departed. The raven watched from the trees, it was not detected. Later, three others came and captured the Draghkar, which had been scouting from the air when the initial attack took place. They put it to the question, though I know not what information it could have given them…"

"Precious little," answered Arachnae, "Draghkar are notoriously stupid creatures." She turned to Ranim; "If I want some intelligible facts then I think that I had best send you next time, my dear. You and your men."

If the thought of being transported via Portal Stone to a dangerous and unknown place bothered Ranim, he gave no sign, merely nodded and murmured; "as you command, Dread Mistress."

"I want one of your Eye-Blinders to go with them," Arachnae told Zaradin, "if there is a Madman about, then we must fight fire with fire."

Zaradin nodded, inclined his head and raised a forefinger. A fierce flame danced at the end of it briefly, before disappearing.

The Courier coughed pointedly, to gain Arachnae's attention.

"Yes?" Arachnae said.

"I believe that I know where they went," the Courier stated, "and more to the point, _when_ they went."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Arachnae demanded.

The Courier smiled his thin smile. "You have a problem, Dread Lady… there is something wrong with the connection between these two Portal Stones; an irrevocable disparity, a time-differential of at least a twelvemonth."

Arachnae frowned with confusion. "You mean..?"

"Journeying from here to there takes one forward in time by upwards of a year. The return voyage from there to here clearly reverses the process, bringing the subject back in time for an identical span. Rather fascinating, really…"

Arachnae scowled. "Thank you for that! Tell me…" she paused, then asked; "what is your _name_ , anyway? What do they call you at the Shadow Library?"

The Courier shrugged again. "I have no name, not anymore. I was remade by the Great Lord into a tool for his divine use. I am no longer a person, as most would understand it." He smiled thinly, once more. "You may refer to me simply as 'Courier' if you wish."

"I do _not_ wish!" Arachnae sneered. "From now on, your name is; 'Master Raven!'"

The Courier raised his dark eyebrows slightly. His disturbing, black eyes widened a little. "It will serve," he muttered.

"So tell me, Master Raven; I know where 'here' is of course, but where is this 'there' of yours? Where did my enemy go to escape me?"

The Courier become Master Raven considered for a moment, then blinked. "Why, to the far southern continent, it would seem… yes, I am certain of it. The emanations from the _Seia Shadar_ hinted at great distance, a southerly direction, an uncommon large landmass. Not one of the small islands of the Sea of Storms, certainly, but an extensive territory… it can be nowhere else."

Arachnae and the others looked confused at this information, all but Duadh. He frowned, shaking his head slowly back and forth. "By the Stormfather's beard, this is not good," he muttered, darkly.

They looked at him. " _What_ is not good, Duadh?" Irmilla enquired, impatiently.

"These tidings of the Raven-man! To the far south lies a lost land that neither the oilfishers of Mayene nor the Light-loving fools of the other Sea Folk Clans voyage to… not even Clan Waketa of the true Atha'an Miere, who know no fear, will sail there! By the Siren's teats, tis a deadly place!" Duadh fixed Arachnae, Irmilla and the others with a solemn gaze, his perpetual grin disappearing from his features for once.

"We call it… _the Land of the Madmen!_ "

* * *

 _When the Great Hawkwing heard of the disastrous fate of the ill-conceived Shara Expedition, the dreadful news brought to him by the Atha'an Miere Mistress of Ships herself, his rage was terrifying to behold. His sorrow at the loss of a beloved daughter was of equal magnitude. He called myself as well as numerous other Counsellors and Generals into his presence later that day, and discussed plans for a second expedition, a search for any survivors of his proud fleet, perhaps even his daughter Morgana, were she yet living. These plans never came to fruition. That very evening, the High King was struck down by the sudden onset of a terrible fever. He lingered close to death for a month, refusing all offers of Healing from the White Tower, calling out for his sword Justice and speaking to his long-dead wives in a delirious state, then finally succumbed to the sickness. At the age of eighty-two, the Hawkwing is no more. After an entire generation of peace, Artur Paendrag Tanreall is dead; and I greatly fear for the future..._

(taken from the personal memoir of Jeorad Manyard, Governor of Andor, circa: FY 994)

* * *

 **Chapter Six * The Castle**

Roth Blucha, Journeyman Gleeman and occasional pretend Bard, crouched shivering on the sand, next to the empty stockade. It wasn't particularly cold, even with the sun down, it never was in this horrible land, he considered. No, it was outright _fear_ that was making him shiver. "Roth shall go with you," he muttered spitefully, mimicking Ysmet's Ebou Dari accents, "his _ter'angreal_ may prove efficacious!" Roth scowled, and then hissed; " _women!_ " If he had had any idea that his invisibility pipe would not bloody _work_ on this awful Isle of the Spire, then he would never have set foot in that vile longboat full of grinning seamen who mocked his seasickness! For someone from a coastal town, the son of a fisherman at that, Roth had always been a surprisingly poor sailor. Even the small Aielman, Chassin, had experienced less discomfort on their long and rough voyage; why, he had only been sick once! Roth had vomited five times!

The Aielman… the short, violent fellow had gone sneaking off to surreptitiously enter the castle some time ago, accompanied by the stern Warder, Dagnon. Roth was grateful that they had left him behind, though felt somewhat hurt at their disparaging remarks about his inability to move silently… he was a Gleeman, not a cutpurse! He couldn't help it if he occasionally started to whistle a pleasing melody without realising that he was doing so! It had been quite unnecessary for them to threaten to break his harp over his head if he didn't shut up! Aielmen, Warders, they were all alike; much given to excessive brutality…

A pair of the dangerous-looking hawk-masked soldiers appeared out of the night, walking along the beach, down where the big canoes were drawn up on the sand. Both had swords sheathed at their belts, one held aloft a blazing torch. Though the small patrol was quite far away, Roth shrank further back into the shadows, licking his lips nervously and fingering the long dagger that was in the hand that wasn't gripping the harp. The harp-case was slung on his back, but it comforted him to hold his prized instrument. The others had wanted to know why he had brought the harp at all, and he wasn't entirely sure, to be honest… he supposed that he just didn't like to let it out of his sight, that was all. It might even prove useful?

Roth had once tried to placate some angry Trollocs by playing soothing music upon his harp for their delectation, but the tactic had failed miserably… the soft chords and scales teased from the strings by his skilful yet nimble fingers had just served to make the monstrous creatures angrier, and they had pursued him with renewed vigour. They had all looked rather hungry, in fact… presumably, there was not much to eat, up in the Blight. Excepting _him_ , of course… Fortunate that his pipe- _ter'angreal_ had saved the day, that and hiding submerged up to his nose in stinking swamp water. But there would be no comforting invisibility for him here, on this dread island of the enemy. He had blown the pipe several times, until Dagnon Gaidin had angrily told him not to, and nothing whatsoever had happened! It must be that big spire thing that prevented the Aes Sedai from channeling; it rendered his _ter'angreal_ useless into the bargain. It really was _too_ provoking, he was going to give his beloved wife a piece of his mind when he got back! _If_ he got back…

Roth narrowed his eyes, watching as the two guards disappeared down the beach, the night swallowing them up. They didn't look as though they much cared for music either… he glanced at the shielded-lantern standing beside him. How long should he wait for Chassin and Dagnon to return? What if they _didn't_ return? Perhaps he should sneak down to the shore and shine the lantern, summon the longboat before it was too late? There wouldn't be any more guards walking past for at least another five-hundred hand counts, Chassin had made certain of the routine of their patrols before continuing on to the castle, the dangerous Murandian Warder at his heels. Roth's brow furrowed. What was the signal again? They had patiently repeated it to him three times… but he had a poor memory for anything that was not a song or a story. Three long flashes of the lantern and two short? No, that wasn't right… two long flashes and-

"Hello there," growled a throaty, oddly-accented voice from right behind him, "you are a Gleeman?"

Roth whirled around, beheld a pair of glowing, cobalt eyes staring at him from the shadows, and opened his mouth wide to scream. Something large blurred into him forcefully, bearing him down to the sand, whilst a gloved hand clamped securely over his lips, stifling any sounds of terror that might have emerged. The scary eyes were now but a few inches away from his own, and the strange voice hissed; "shush! Do not cry out, the ones in the bird-masks will assuredly hear you!"

Roth stared. He could now tell that whoever it was, with the disturbing, glow-in-the-dark eyes – some sort of Shadowspawn, perhaps? – was swathed in what could only be fancloth, covering their head, face and most of their body. They also had a sword, he could feel the hilt digging into his hip. His own knife seemed to have disappeared, and… his eyes, already wide with alarm, widened further with raw panic. His assailant noticed. "What is it? What is wrong, Gleeman?"

"Mmff! Mmm-hmff!"

The glowing eyes blinked slowly in a somewhat feline way. "Alright, if I take my hand away from your mouth, you must speak _quietly._ Nod your head if you understand."

Roth nodded fervently. The gloved hand was removed. "Where is my _harp?_ " Roth whispered, urgently.

"It is here," said the shadowy whatever-it-was, passing him his harp. It was – thank the Creator! – undamaged. "And here is your knife." The glowing-eyed creature passed him that too.

Roth clutched the harp to his breast, tucked the knife unconcernedly into his boot and regarded his attacker curiously, though the curiosity was much tempered by fear and the strong urge to scream wildly. He did not, however, instead recalling the question that had been asked… "Yes, I _am_ a Gleeman," he confirmed softly, "but what are _you?_ "

"A Shieldman," answered the other, "and also, I suppose, a sort of Warder." He lowered the fancloth veil from over his mouth and nose, revealing a surprisingly pleasant, good-humoured face. Though the eyes rather spoilt the effect. "I am Sin'aethan Shadar Cor," he stated, sharp teeth flashing in the gloom, "though you may call me 'N'aethan.'" There was a pause. "What is your name?" N'aethan prompted.

Roth realised that he was being rude. "Roth Blucha, Gleeman, late of Falme," he answered quietly.

"Ah, I have heard of you; Shrina Sedai's friend," the one named N'aethan commented.

Roth blinked. "You know Shrina?" he enquired, beginning to hope that he wasn't about to be killed, and possibly eaten.

"But of course. She is the Hornsounder!"

"Oh, so she found it, did she? Good for her!" Roth glanced up at the castle that loomed above them, worried. "I hope she's alright…"

"We shall discover that presently." N'aethan reached out a gloved hand, took a fold of Roth's cloak between his thick fingers and examined the fluttering patches with interest. "Long have I wished to meet a Gleeman," he mused, "though I did not look to encounter one here." The glowing eyes stared at Roth searchingly. "How came you to be in the Land of the Madmen?"

Roth sighed. "It is a long story…" he muttered.

"We have a while until the guards next come around," N'aethan pointed-out, though Roth was unsure what this had to do with the price of fish, as the old Falman saying went. "You might as well tell me the tale of how you got here?"

Roth thought about it, and shrugged. "Alright then." He smiled sardonically. "Stories _are_ my trade, after all…"

" _Wake and rise! I know you are up there!"_

 _Roth blinked himself awake and groaned. He reached out to cuddle Ysmet, but her side of the bed was empty and cold. He recalled why, and groaned again, this time with the most profound misery. The deep voice that had rudely wrenched him from a dream of happier times sounded again, coming from somewhere outside;_

" _Wakime demands your presence, scurrilous Gleeman! Stir from your grimy nest of shame!" The harsh tones of the diatribe were unmistakeably Saldaean._

" _Wakime..?" Roth muttered, and got out of bed, stumbling over to the window. He was yet fully dressed, in rumpled green velvets, one boot still on. He was unsure where the other was… He threw back the rickety shutter and gazed blearily down at the rear stable-yard of his inn, Easing the Badger. A diminutive Nobleman who he instantly recognised as the notorious Lord Wakime stood upon the cobbles, dwarfed by the enormous, dark, snorting stallion behind him, its reins gingerly held by a black-haired stable-boy._

 _Wakime wore a long purple coat embroidered with silver snarling wolf's heads, fawn moleskin britches tucked into dark riding boots so shiny that it hurt Roth's eyes to look at them, a long, golden, satin cloak completing the ensemble. In short – and he_ was _short – he was garbed in his usual tastelessly extravagant style. He also looked furious, his dark, tilted eyes staring murderously up at the window, a heavily be-ringed hand resting on the Heron-marked hilt of his Heron-marked blade. Roth had seen him in action and was well aware that he knew how to use that thing…_

" _Tis Lord Alven of House Wakime," the Saldaean Nobleman announced, entirely unnecessarily, since there was no-one else in the Westlands, or probably anywhere else, who could possibly match his singular description. "Well met, Roth Blucha, Gleeman and slanderer!"_

" _What do you want?" Roth asked weakly._

" _Your ignoble_ head, _hanging from Wakime's saddle-horn! Or possibly, just your scalp…" Wakime thought about it for a moment, then wagged a finger in a nugatory gesture. "No, it shall definitely have to be your head; Wakime shall mount it upon the wall of the trophy-room in his manor house, and throw things at it for his private amusement!"_

 _Roth blinked. "Are you... angry with me about something, my Lord?" he queried, felling queasy, his head pounding fiercely. He had drowned his sorrows with rather a lot of wine, the night before. He couldn't remember exactly how much…_

" _Angry? No, not angry… apoplectic!"_

" _But_ why? _"_

" _Did you not compose a vile and false ballad regarding Wakime's misadventures and appearance, lowly prating Gleeman that you are?!"_

" _Um…"_

" _You did! Wakime sees the truth in your bleary eyes! He is sickened by your very appearance... you look as though you have spent the night in a pig-sty, to the detriment of the pigs!"_

" _Who told you_ I _wrote it?" Roth stammered, trying to buy time to think of a way out of this increasingly dangerous situation..._

" _Another Gleeman informed wronged Wakime of the vile song's provenance… there are many Gleemen in the world, it would seem (unfortunately) and this fellow came close to naming them all, without ever managing to name himself!" Wakime considered, then; "he wore his hair in Arafelin braids with bells on, was tall and skinny. Conceited, too."_

" _Smyke!" cursed Roth. Trust his odious rival Jared Smyke, Journeyman Gleeman, to drop him in the soup!_

" _Smyke? If you say so… the verbose fellow told Wakime that_ you _penned the false lyrics and then passed out copies to every other Gleeman which you could find, that bold Wakime might be ridiculed the length and breadth of the Westlands!"_

" _Well…_ you _left me in the Blight, to be eaten by a gigantic worm-monster!" shouted Roth accusingly, then wished he hadn't, clutching his aching head and moaning._

" _Wakime did no such thing! Why, he bravely led the Worm away in the opposite direction, that you might escape!"_

" _Well, I_ didn't _escape, Lord Wakime, I got lost in the Blight, wandered for weeks, nearly died of hunger and thirst, got chased by ravening Trollocs and worst of all, was rescued by lunatic Aielmen who forced me to guest at their horrid Hold for an entire month and entertain them with a variety of dismal war-stories and dull martial songs!_ That _is why I wrote the Ballad of Lord Wakime!"_

" _So you admit it, Blucha?"_

" _I do! Incidentally, have you got taller, my Lord? You certainly look a bit taller…"_

" _Wakime is wearing special boots with raised heels."_

" _Oh. How did you find me, anyway?"_

" _Wakime heard that you were in Illian, roistering with all of the other work-shy, lazy Gleemen! As to your more specific location, the urchin told me."_

 _Wakime pointed to the stable-lad, who was regarding the huge war-horse whose reins he held, cautiously. In the other grimy hand he held a large, uncut ruby. At this description though, he scowled. "I do no be an_ urchin, _" he protested, "I do be an ostler!"_

 _Wakime ignored the boy, glaring up at Roth. "You have betrayed Lord Wakime, Gleeman! He treated you well and paid you handsomely to compose_ nice _songs about him and his daring exploits – and in stead, everywhere Wakime goes, he is made a laughing stock by a ballad describing him in unspeakable terms as a moronic womanising popinjay with poor dress-sense!"_

" _There was quite a lot in there about your meagre height, too," Roth pointed-out._

 _Lord Wakime scowled darkly, Roth immediately regretted his words, as he often did. "You only serve to dig your grave deeper," Wakime warned, "you stack yet more wood upon your funeral pyre with your ready mouth, slanderous Gleeman!"_

" _With my mouth? Wouldn't it be easier to stack wood with my hands?"_

" _Do not bandy words with Wakime, ridiculous fool! You know what he meant!"_

" _But… I had to do_ something… _apart from nearly getting me killed, you were drooling all over my first love, Shrina!"_

" _The delectable Shrinalla Sedai? What of her?"_

" _You made me write a sordid poem about her!"_

" _Wakime_ paid _you to write a sordid poem about her… there is a difference!" Wakime frowned. "Wakime tires of this fruitless badinage! Come down and face him, cowardly Gleeman!"_

 _Roth smirked. "Alright then… I'll bring a box, shall I?"_

 _Wakime's brow furrowed. "A box?" he asked, puzzled, "why a box?"_

" _So that you may stand upon it in order that I might face you, my Lord!" Roth responded, rather unwisely._

 _Lord Wakime snarled wrathfully and drew his sword with a flourish. "Very well – if you will not come down, then Wakime shall come_ up! _" Wakime then dashed through the rear doorway of the inn. Roth was no stranger to the concept of sudden exits, however. After grabbing his harp-case and precious Gleeman's cloak, and locating his missing boot beneath the bed, he hastily slipped out of the window. The sound of small feet pounding up the creaky rear stairs of the old inn was evident. Lowering himself to the cobbles via a handy trellis, Roth regarded Wakime's stallion thoughtfully._

" _I wouldn't if I did be you, Master Blucha," the stable-boy warned, guessing Roth's intent, "he do be like to bite your face off!" The war-horse snorted threateningly and bared its large teeth, in corroboration. From above came the unmistakeable sound of a door being kicked open._

" _I should have gone with you when I had the chance, my beloved Ysmet!" Roth wailed theatrically._

" _Do you be speaking of Captain Ysmet, of the Queen Mab?" the stable-lad asked, curiously._

" _Why, yes! She sailed upon the dawning tide; I shall ne'er see her again!"_

" _She did not! Her departure did be delayed by a sprung mast… my uncle did tell me, he do be the Dockmaster."_

" _Then there is still time!" Roth cried._

 _Lord Wakime's angry face, suffused with rageful blood, appeared at the window above. "There you are, Gleeman swine!" he roared, "you run from the righteous justice of Lord Wakime as you ran from the Worm, snivelling wretch!"_

" _You've got a bloody_ sword! _" Roth objected, "what do you want me to do, just stand there and let you stab me in the guts?!" He tossed a silver mark to the stable-boy. "Another horse – and quick!"_

 _The boy snatched the coin out of the air and nodded to one of the stalls. "Take the piebald, Gleeman! She do be the fastest… leave her with my uncle when you do get to the docks."_

" _How in the waves will I know which one is your uncle?" Roth demanded._

" _He do be the fellow with only one leg!" the stable-boy explained impatiently._

 _Roth realised that he was wasting valuable time and went to fetch the horse. Lord Wakime had disappeared from the window, the sound of his boots rapidly descending the stairs could be heard. Roth dragged the sleepy mare from its stall by the bridle and swung up on to it. He would have to ride bare-back, there was no time for the luxury of tack, but fortunately he was a far more accomplished horseman than sailor. Wakime, on the other hand, was a rider from the Plain of Lances, and might have been born in the saddle… with this in mind, Roth looked about for some sort of diversion. Fortunately, one appeared in the form of a hulking young man emerging from the outdoor privy, gaping somewhat stupidly at what was going on._

" _Bili!" Roth called, gaining the slow attention of the inn's resident doorman, nephew of the innkeeper, "Mistress Sidoro says a guest is leaving without paying – a little chap with a silly moustache lurking beneath his big nose, wearing ridiculous clothing!"_

 _Bili blinked slowly, assimilating this information, then turned in time to see Lord Wakime come hurtling out into the stableyard. "Stop!" bade Bili, spreading his large, muscular arms wide and unwisely blocking the Saldaean Nobleman's path. Wakime's tilted eyes narrowed further and he promptly kicked the unfortunate Bili in the crotch. Bili groaned, doubling over, and Wakime rapped him smartly on the skull with the pommel of his sword. Bili collapsed to the cobbles like a ton of bricks and Wakime stepped over his comatose form, dark, vengeful eyes fixed on Roth._

" _Ouch!" muttered Roth, wincing, then dug his heels into the piebald mare's sides. The horse sprang toward the gate, nearly unseating Roth, thence galloping down the street and through the Perfumed Quarter, which fortunately, at that time of the day, was not too crowded. Wakime vaulted into his saddle and took off in hot pursuit. The stable-boy watched them race over the Bridge of Flowers, then tucked the ruby into his pocket and, whistling the tune of the Ballad of Lord Wakime, went to fetch some ice for poor Bili._

 _Fortunately for the sake of his head remaining on its shoulders, Roth knew Illian far better than Lord Wakime, and by taking several short cuts, had managed to extend his lead to half a block by the time they reached the docks. Roth was clinging on to the horse's mane for dear life, his Gleeman's cloak billowing behind him, his harp-case bumping against his back. His eyes searched frantically for the familiar shape of the Queen Mab, built like a Sea Folk Raker but with bluffer bows, designed to plough through the cruel breakers of the Sea of Storms. And there she was, at the end of the ancient stone dock. Roth's eyes narrowed. Sailors were aloft, setting sails, whilst dock hands were casting off the thick mooring cables. She was leaving! Without him!_

 _Roth's refusal to go to sea, to undertake a perilous voyage to unknown lands, had resulted in that final argument with Ysmet, the breaking-off of their engagement; but the homicidal Lord Wakime had engendered a rapid change of mind on his part! It might be best to voyage the oceans for a few years, wait for the Saldaean Nobleman's ire to cool. Or hopefully, one of those revolting monsters of the Blight would devour him, in the meantime..._

" _Wait for me!" Roth shouted desperately, galloping down the quay, Wakime a furlong behind. Heads turned, up on the quarterdeck, Roth could see Ysmet and that Aes Sedai friend of hers… with a clattering of hooves, Roth drew level with the Queen Mab, just as she began to drift clear of the wharf. A burly man with a chin-beard, a peg-leg and the braided rope insignia of a Dockmaster on his coat gaped at Roth as he passed him the bridle, gasping; "yours, I believe!" breathlessly._

 _Lord Wakime was close behind now, Heron-marked blade raised aloft, out for blood. Roth wasted no time but took a running jump for the receding deck of the ship. He landed on the edge of the gangway, teetered, began to fall back toward the oily and noisome waters beneath… but then a steely hand shot out, gripped the front of his coat and yanked him to safety. It was the Murandian Warder with the big red moustaches._

" _Thanks, Danyon," Roth gasped._

" _It's_ Dagnon, _you fool!" snapped the Gaidin Lord, propelling him toward the quarterdeck. The strange Aielman Ruon was scrubbing the deck with a holystone, alongside Raab, the shifty Sea Folk renegade. Ruon ignored them, continuing to scrub away, but Raab raised his head and watched them pass with sly curiosity. The odd guide, Gen, was perched on a barrel nearby, chewing on a piece of hard cheese._

 _Ysmet stood up on the quarterdeck, hands on hips, regarding Roth coolly. "You said that you did not wish to accompany me, Roth," she pointed-out._

" _I had a change of mind, my sweet! In truth, I cannot live without you!"_

 _Ysmet's expression softened a little. Her eyes were red-rimmed, she looked as though she had been crying, which was unusual for the stoic Noblewoman. Her gaze moved back to the quay, now quite distant. "Who is that short, oddly-dressed man with the sword?" she wanted to know, "he seems to be shouting threats at you, but I cannot hear what they are."_

" _Oh, he is just a friend of mine, he came to see me off," replied Roth, breezily._

" _He appeared to be_ chasing _you," recalled Ysmet, frowning._

" _Chasing? Why, no my darling, we were merely enjoying a spirited horse-race through the streets of Illian!"_

 _Ysmet looked doubtful, but then her friend Rashiel Sedai, who had been staring intently at the small figure on the dock, cried; "why, that's Lord Wakime! What's he doing here?" She waved her lace handkerchief, smiling fondly. Dagnon Gaidin noticed, and scowled. Wakime was literally hopping up and down with rage, brandishing his sword and shouting, but fortunately his words were too indistinct to be heard._

 _Roth took the steps up to the quarterdeck two at a time and swept Ysmet into his arms, kissing her lovingly. She resisted at first, punching his ribs, clearly still angry with him, but gradually relented, kissing him back. The Quartermaster at the wheel and the big, hook-handed Bosun both grinned. Roth and Ysmet parted lips breathlessly, gazing deep into each other's eyes._

" _I knew you would change your mind, Roth," Ysmet murmured._

" _I awoke this morn, realised how much I loved you, and leapt onto the fastest horse I could find at short notice!" Roth explained. It was only_ some _of the truth, but rare enough for him, it was at least true._

 _Roth turned to Rashiel, who was still gazing at the distant figure of Lord Wakime, a small smile curving her full lips, as she recalled pleasant times. Dagnon joined her and she glanced up at him, her smile widening, and slipped an arm through his. "He's just an old flame," she commented, "you're the only man for me, my love…"_

 _Dagnon might have smiled at this, but it was hard to tell, due to the moustaches. He stopped scowling, however._

" _Um… Rashiel Sedai?"_

" _Yes, Roth? And you don't have to call me 'Sedai' since that harridan Galina has apparently kicked me out of the Red Ajah… my current status is debatable."_

" _Well… you can still perform marriages, can't you?"_

" _I suppose..."_

" _Then please be so good as to bind Ysmet and myself in blessed wedlock as soon as possible!" Roth requested, firmly._

 _Ysmet's eyes widened at this, but then she smiled, overjoyed. "You really do love me, don't you, Songbird?"_

" _I always have and I always will," Roth responded, perfectly seriously, holding Ysmet tighter._

 _But for the attack by pirates and the incident with the sea-monster, the rest of the voyage to the far south went smoothly… until they finally sighted land, when there was the storm, the reef and the wreck._

"…and so," Roth whispered, ending his tale, "but for the attack by pirates and the incident with the sea-monster, the rest of the voyage to the far south went smoothly." He frowned. "However, as we finally came in sight of land, a terrible storm appeared out of nowhere. Our guide, Gen, called it an ' _urricano._ ' It swept us onto a coral reef and the ship went down with a score of the hands, poor beggars. Eaten by lionfish, to a man! The rest of us made it ashore in the boats, all but one of which were wrecked on the beach... we built a camp from washed-up flotsam and have been awaiting rescue ever since." Roth wondered whether to include the information about the messages in bottles that he had been regularly launching out to sea, but decided not to. He did not want this odd Warder, or whatever he was, to laugh at him.

N'aethan Gaidin was frowning quizzically. "We ourselves encountered pirates, Darkfriend corsairs," he commented, "and we slew them all. But… did you say something about a sea-monster?"

"Yes!" confirmed Roth, louder than was wise, "but I'm the only one who saw the bloody thing, and no-one believes me, they think I'm making it up in a fit of artistic licence, just like with the enormous great dog that old Willi and I came upon in the woods that night!"

"Shh! Not so _loud_ , good Gleeman… I believe you, about the sea-monster, for all that I have never seen one myself… though I should like to!" N'aethan shrugged. "And I am yet unsure about this 'homicidal dwarf' as you name him repeatedly, who pursued you through the metropolis of Illerum."

" _Illian_."

"Yes, that. Truly, you Gleemen appear to lead an interesting existence, having many an adventure. It must be a fine life."

"Well, I suppose… better than staying in Falme and flogging fish, certainly!"

"I do not know what you mean, your words are strange to me. But that was quite a story, the parts of it that I understood, at least." N'aethan leaned closer to Roth, lowering his voice a little; "tell me, what is it _like_ , to perform before an audience, to receive their applause?"

"It is the finest thing that there is," Roth answered simply. "Why, I would not change places with a King! No Gleeman would…"

N'aethan nodded thoughtfully, then glanced past Roth, his strange eyes narrowing. "Ah, here they come again." Torchlight in the distance, slowly approaching. "About time too… did they walk around the whole _tsagging_ island?"

N'aethan rose smoothly, Roth shrank further back into the shadows. "What are you going to do?" he asked nervously.

"To the guards? Several things, all of which are violent!" N'aethan made an odd, mewling sound. "Stay here, Gleeman…"

"I wasn't offering to come _with_ you," Roth muttered scathingly, then; "but there _are_ two of them, so mayhap I should..?"

"No need. But put your harp away; it catches the light, it might reveal our position." And with that, the fancloth-shrouded Warder slipped into the night, disappearing.

Roth restored the harp to its case and waited, tremulously, straining his ears, but heard nothing. Glancing at the shore again, he noted that the soldiers seemed to have disappeared. Then, N'aethan the Warder materialised back out of the darkness, crouching next to Roth. He pushed a small bundle into the Gleeman's arms. "Here, put these on." It proved to be a cloak and dark coat embroidered with a silver hawk in flight, wrapped around one of the steel masks fashioned like a hawk's face, that the Hawx Guard wore. Roth noted that the Warder, in addition to his own bundle, had a sword tucked under his arm, as well as his own, sheathed at his belt. His heart sank.

"You want us to disguise ourselves as guards and breech the castle," Roth supposed, fatalistically.

"But of course. Speak you the Old Tongue?"

" _Yea, of a certainty I dost_ ," Roth responded in the High Chant, which was close enough to make no difference, he considered.

N'aethan frowned. "Try to be a little more colloquial," he suggested, "you'll probably sound a bit like a Bard, talking like that…"

Roth scowled. "A _Bard?_ " he hissed, "how dare you, sir!"

* * *

Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman and once Court Bard to the False Dragon Davian, also known to some as the Laughing God, made his way along one of the many galleries of the castle of the Hawx. He whistled a soft, melancholy air, composed long ago by one Joar Addam Nessosin… silver bells tinkled as he walked, because at the moment he was being Rags, Court-Fool to the High Princess. He had played many parts in his strange and extended life, had worn many faces, and he portrayed Rags to perfection. He _needed_ to, the Isle of the Spire was a vital refuge to him… the torc- _ter'angreal_ , then the Fox-mask, they only went so far in preserving what remained of his sanity. The Dark One's Taint was powerful, and every year of his long life, seemed to grow more potent within him. But the Spire negated its effects, by denying him the influence of tainted _saidin_. A true blessing to an ancient Madman, he considered, sardonically.

After sending his prisoners on their way, Jeb had returned to his quarters unseen and unchallenged via dark and unknown paths, and changed his clothing. His precious Gleeman's cloak, _sa'angreal_ and Fox-mask, were now secreted beneath his bed and he wore his clown's motley, a multi-hued coat and britches sewn all over with small silver bells, the outfit completed by pointed shoes.

Distant shouting; Jeb stopped whistling and cocked his head to one side, listening intently. The sound of booted feet running on tiles approached and a squad of six hawk-masked soldiers appeared at the end of the gallery, hastening his way, swords drawn. Jeb stood aside to let them pass, calling out in his high-pitched voice; "you shouldn't run with swords, tis _dangerous!_ " The soldiers ignored him grimly as they raced past. "What is amiss, good Hawx?" Jeb enquired.

The final guard in the patrol, a slender female, answered breathlessly; "the witches have escaped, Rags!" and then they were gone, the noise of their footfalls fading into the distance.

"Tell me something I _don't_ know," Jeb muttered disparagingly, then continued on his way, bells tinkling. He knew the castle like the back of his hand, was familiar with all of the secret ways in and out, so finding the infirmary was simplicity itself… along the gallery, down a hallway, up some steps, third door on the left. Since it was night-time, only one of the leeches was on duty, a junior physician of debatable skill. And besides, the fellow was neglecting those duties by being fast asleep. Jeb had seen to that; if one could put sleep-herb in the gaoler's ale, one could do the same for a healer's wine. The young man in question was slumped face down at his desk, close beside the doorway. Just to make sure, Jeb lifted his head by the long braids of hair and thumbed one of the sleeping fellow's eyelids open, checking his pupils. They were widely dilated and the physician did not wake. Satisfied, Jeb lowered the young man's head back to the desktop, the rest of him supported by a three-legged stool, then went over to the bed in the corner. It was the only bed occupied in the otherwise deserted infirmary, there being no sickness in the castle at the moment, and none wounded either… Aiel and Warders did not wound their enemies it seemed, but simply killed them outright.

The bed was occupied by the unconscious Atha'an Miere Gaidin, his bare torso bandaged, a trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. His breathing was shallow and it did not take a trained healer to see that he was close to death. The physicians had been able to do little for him but make him comfortable.

Jeb had been a roving hedge-doctor and herbalist in his time, and could tell that in addition to the broken ribs, the patient had internal injuries, possibly a fever also. He placed a hand on the Warder's brow and nodded; he could feel the heat radiating from the wounded man's dark skin, he was burning up. Jeb sighed. "I know you can't hear me, Sea Folk," he murmured, "but should you ever wonder why I did this, then the answer is simple… your Clan performed a great service for me long ago, and it is time to pay the debt." Of course, he could tell from the tattoos on the fellow's hands that he was a Takana.

Jeb hitched up his coat, touching the large, ornate belt-buckle that was hidden beneath. Its beaten copper surface, shaped into the form of the Eternal Serpent, was somewhat green and corroded, a residue of the Taint, doubtless. It was also a Well- _ter'angreal_ , his second gift from the Foxes, and a powerful one at that. Jeb suspected that he would need every bit of that power for the task ahead. With the easy skill of long practice, he drew _saidin_ from the Well, combating the raging sensations of sickness and madness that came with it, and cast a complex Healing weave of his own devising, composed of all five elements of the True Source. Jeb promptly directed these forces into the comatose Sea Folk Warder's recumbent form.

The Atha'an Miere Gaidin gasped, but did not wake, his back arching, limbs spasming. This went on for a time; then, the Healing was done. With the remaining _saidin_ in the largely-drained Well, Jeb Delved his patient and nodded, satisfied. The fellow would live. For now. If he came looking for his Aes Sedai wife, he would find only death, no doubt, but a debt was a debt and now it had been repaid. Long ago, if the Sea Folk had not come along when they did, Jeb would have ended his miserable life on a barren rock in the middle of the Sea of Storms, with no-one to talk to but himself. He turned away, starting for the door, then paused as he recalled something and went back to the bed.

"You'll be hungry when you wake, Atha'an Miere," Jeb told his sleeping patient, and took a waxed paper package out of his coat pocket. He left it beside the pillow. "Sorry, but the kitchen's closed at this time of night; tis the best I can do!" he explained cheerfully, then departed the infirmary, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Jeb paced down the hall, resuming his whistling, this time a strange, atonal melody composed by the infamous Torian Simoone. He would look in on the Princess, perhaps tell her a story if she was still awake, then back to his quarters to sleep. And Dream. It was time to talk to the Crone again, he decided. Now that he had something she wanted. And, more to the point, _she_ had something _he_ wanted…

* * *

"This is never going to work!" the Gleeman hissed, "you're obviously completely mad, just like everyone else in this insane land!"

" _I_ told _you; speak the Old Tongue!_ " N'aethan growled back, as they marched in step towards the castle gate.

" _I dost merely knoweth the High Chant,_ " Roth Blucha answered, in the declamatory speech of Bards, " _and whilst tis similar, thee sayeth it soundeth silly!_ "

" _Yes it does! Well, let_ me _do the talking… and keep your big mouth shut, or Sin'aethan Shadar Cor shall stuff his stocking in it!_ " The Gleeman scowled, but did not reply. Just as well, N'aethan had been wearing the same pair of stockings for several days now, it would not have been a pleasant experience for him…

There were a pair of guards at the open portcullis, standing to either side of the tall archway that led into the main courtyard of the castle. Fortunately, it was dark so they might not notice that the two hawk-masked soldiers approaching them were rank impostors… but if they did, N'aethan supposed that he would just have to kill them, much as he wished to avoid having to do it. He did not like killing humans, with the exception of Darkfriends and Madmen, naturally. The two guards on the beach he had disabled, taking them down swiftly, knocking one out and rendering the other unconscious with a pressure-hold. They were currently securely bound and gagged inside one of the big canoes, and unlike the Seanchan assassin Mitsu, he did not think they would be able to escape their bonds. Before binding them, he had taken their hawk-emblazoned coats, cloaks, masks and a sword for the Gleeman as well. Of course, it would have been far easier just to kill the guards... but if Father had taught him anything, it was that the easy way was ever the way of the Shadow.

N'aethan yet had his own Power-wrought blade sheathed at his belt, but had left behind his fancloth poncho hidden back at the stockade. The Gleeman had likewise left his harp in its case, the multicoloured cloak wrapped around it, and had grumbled a good deal about this, but N'aethan had insisted. Honestly! Who in the Wheel went on a covert spying mission bearing a musical instrument and wearing a brightly-hued cloak covered in fluttering patches?! And the fellow thought _he_ was mad? This Roth was more than a little peculiar himself!

They approached the gate, doing their best to march in soldierly fashion, the low light of the torches above glinting off the silver hawks on their coats, the steel masks that obscured their features. The two guards straightened, hands on the hilts of their swords. N'aethan tensed.

" _Halt, and be recognised!_ " snapped one of the hawk-masked soldiers, in the Old Tongue. They halted, hoping _not_ to be recognised.

" _What is the watch-word?_ " demanded the other soldier, in the same ancient language.

N'aethan blinked. He had no idea what it was…

" _Swordfish!_ " answered Roth, promptly.

" _You may pass._ "

They hesitated a moment, then marched between the two guards, through the archway and into the castle.

" _How did you know_ that?" N'aethan hissed.

Roth smiled smugly. "The short Aielman-"

" _Chassin._ "

"Yes, him. Well, earlier he sneaked up to the castle to reconnoitre and overheard the watch-word." Roth shrugged. "He came back to fetch the Warder and I eavesdropped on them talking about it…"

" _Where are they now?_ " N'aethan asked, persisting with the Old Tongue though the Gleeman was not.

"Blind stag."

" _What?_ "

"No-eye-deer!"

N'aethan scowled, then glanced back at the gate. " _I cannot believe that worked. Those guards must be even stupider than_ you, _Gleeman!_ "

"Hey!" Roth protested.

" _Shush!_ "

The large courtyard was deserted but in case of unseen watchers, they marched across it in martial style, swinging their arms a bit.

"You know, this minds me of when Old Willi and I trespassed in the Royal Palace of Caemlyn, to hear the Court Bard Thom Merrilin, as he then was," Roth mused, loudly.

" _Stop speaking the Vulgar!_ " N'aethan snapped, adding; " _though it sounds an interesting tale, you may tell it to me later, should you still live."_

"Oh, I doubt the Hawx shall kill _me_ , Gleemen being somewhat sacrosanct. Even the savage Aielmen neglect to slay us."

N'aethan stopped marching. So did Roth. N'aethan fixed the Gleeman with a cold stare, his pupils narrowing into slits. " _Who said anything about the_ Hawx _killing you?_ " he growled, quietly. Roth gulped. " _Now,_ stop _speaking the bloody Vulgar!_ "

" _Yea, verily I shall!_ "

N'aethan selected a doorway at random and went inside, Roth reluctantly following. Up a flight of spiral stairs, along a gallery, down a hallway.

" _Tis a big place, in truth,_ " Roth muttered, carefully using the High Chant.

N'aethan just grunted in response. At least there didn't seem to be anyone about, they were most probably all asleep, but for the guards… but where were Ellythia Sedai and the others being kept? Dungeons were traditionally on the lowest levels, were they not? They should go _down_.

N'aethan and Roth rounded a corner and nearly ran into two hawk-masked soldiers. Everyone reached for their swords, except Roth, who just gaped. Then, N'aethan paused, and grinned. One of the guards was rather short, with a distinctive tail of pale hair hanging over one shoulder. The other was tall, with large, reddish moustaches projecting from beneath his mask, making him look less like a hawk, more like an owl. The short soldier raised his steel mask, revealing himself to be Chassin.

"I see you, Nightwatcher," Chassin stated, gravely.

N'aethan raised his own mask. "I see you back, Chassin!" He turned to the tall, moustachioed man. "You must be the Gaidin…"

The Warder raised his own hawk-mask, displaying stern features. He stared at N'aethan in confusion, as though wondering what he was.

"Hoy! Dressing up as the enemy was _our_ idea!" Roth complained, the last to raise his mask.

The Warder frowned. "We told you to stay on the beach, Gleeman!" he growled.

Roth shrugged. "This abrupt fellow is Dagnon Gaidin," he told N'aethan, "Dagnon do Merideny a..?"

Dagnon scowled.

"The Wetland Warder; Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois," supplied Chassin, adding; "and disguising ourselves as the foe was _our_ plan, Roth Blucha!"

"I am amazed that it succeeded," N'aethan muttered, "you look even less the part than _we_ do!"

Chassin shrugged. "It is true. The Brother of Battles refused to shave his moustache, and I to cut off my warrior's tail, but even so, the guards foolishly let us pass, upon stating the secret fish word." He frowned, puzzled. "Are there truly fishes who bear dishonourable swords? This seems strange to me."

"Oh yes," answered Roth, "don't get into a fight with a swordfish, whatever you do!"

"Shut-up, Gleeman!" Dagnon Gaidin snapped, before shrugging his own broad shoulders. "But it is correct, the guards barely even looked at us… I was expecting to have to kill them." He sounded disappointed that he had not been afforded the opportunity.

"These Madland Hawx warriors are even stupider than Roth Blucha," Chassin commented.

"Hey!" Roth protested, again.

They traversed a long gallery lined with statues of grim-faced, crowned women, an identical gallery opposite, on the other side of a courtyard. More hallways, galleries, courtyards and steps; but going down this time, always down.

"It's like a giant ant-hill," Roth muttered, before being shushed by the others.

N'aethan frowned, they had resumed their masks but it was better lit in the castle, large candles filling brackets in the walls, and if they encountered someone and were challenged, he did not think that their disguises would fool them again. There were his eyes, Chassin's height and hair, the Warder's moustaches and as for the Gleeman, the way he strolled along, looking about himself with interest, the sword that he clearly did not know how to use bumping against his leg, _whistling_ … well, he quite obviously was no soldier! N'aethan glanced back at the Gaidin. Apparently, he was Warder to the Aes Sedai from Roth's story, the one who was companion to his captain and wife… the fellow looked like he might be useful in a fight at least, but was not exactly surreptitious, though not so loud as Roth Blucha. It seemed he lacked certain aspects of Warder training, and did not care either, but had come here looking for a fight. Well, he would most probably get one…

Finally, they came to a heavy iron grating, set in an archway. Beyond it, N'aethan could see spiral steps winding down into the darkness.

" _This seemeth promising_ ," observed Roth, speaking his approximation of the Old Tongue, clearly taking N'aethan's implied threat seriously. They moved closer, examining the locked and barred gate. At which, someone leapt from the shadows behind them, breaking a large piece of wood over the Gleeman's head! Roth went down like a nine-pin, sprawled comatose on the floor. His attacker then seized the Gleeman's fallen sword and hurled himself at them with a loud war-cry!

* * *

Jabal din Sudim Lionfish woke suddenly, feeling drained and ravenous. But his fever seemed to have broken and his wounded ribs no longer troubled him. Strange. He sat up in bed and took an experimental deep breath, expecting pain, but there was none. Cautiously, he unwrapped the bandages from about his torso and was surprised to see that the bruises were gone. That, along with the sensations of weakness and hunger… he had been Healed by Renn before, and knew the signs. Someone had used the One Power to mend his injuries. But who? And how? It was impossible to channel here, was it not; the one called Kor who had stolen his sword had mentioned a spire of the Age of Legends that blocked channelers from the True Source.

Further speculation was left for another time, when Jabal noticed the waxed paper package by his pillow. His stomach growled; he could smell food! He grabbed the package and tore it open; there was a sandwich inside. He seized it, bit into it; tuna-fish! His favourite! That it might be poisoned was but a distant concern, he gobbled the sandwich in a few swift bites, then slipped out of the bed, put on his trews that were hanging over a chair, and prowled around the deserted infirmary. No, not quite empty; the young physician who had bandaged him was sleeping at his desk… Jabal shook him, intending to question the fellow as to the location of the Aes Sedai prisoners, but he could not be awakened... it would seem that he had been drugged. Curious. Jabal then looked for a weapon, but the surgical tools must have all been locked away elsewhere, the best he could find was a wooden crutch, leaning against the wall. It would make a rudimentary club, he supposed, but really, he needed a sword. Preferably, _his_ sword. But the thief, Kor, had gone to the mainland with his men… when Jabal caught up to him, he would make him pay dearly for his insults, his larceny!

Jabal eased open the door that led to the corridor and peered out cautiously, but the coast was clear. After padding silently on bare feet down some steps and along a corridor leading out to a statue-lined gallery, he became convinced that the place was deserted. But then, he heard booted feet marching in the distance. He swiftly hid behind a large statue of a severe-looking woman wearing a coronet with hawk-wings projecting above each ear, and waited. He tightened his grip on the crutch, feeling foolish to be armed with so unimpressive a weapon. Atual Gaidin and some other Warders had taught him how to kill with his hands and feet, though, so there was always that. Jabal sighed, as he usually did, when thinking of Atual Aendwyn… he would miss sparring with the big, grim fellow from Far Madding, even though such training had often had painful consequences. But reportedly, Atual had died bravely, honourably, defending his Aes Sedai to the last. No Warder of the White Tower could ask for more. Jabal hoped such a death would be afforded to him, he did not wish to grow old and decrepit whilst his beloved wife, sustained by the One Power, stayed young.

Whilst he had been musing, the sound of the steps had grown louder, echoing across the courtyard. Then, in the gallery opposite, four hawk-masked soldiers rounded the corner, marching toward the far end. Jabal did not get a good look at them, since he was hiding behind a statue, but decided to follow at a distance, in case they were on their way to visit the prisoners. It was better than wandering lost around this huge and unfamiliar castle…

The soldiers marched on for a while, their boots loud on the tiles, descending several sets of steps in a somewhat circuitous route, so that Jabal, cautiously following at a distance, began to wonder if they knew where they were going any more than he did. At one point, he thought he heard one of the guards say something, and be shushed by the others.

Then, the footsteps stopped. Jabal peeked around the corner. The soldiers were standing with their backs to him, in front of an iron grating. One of them, a slender fellow, spoke, making a comment in what sounded like the Old Tongue. Jabal did not speak this, for all that he understood the language of Shara, but assumed that the skinny one was the leader, giving an order to the other Hawx. Jabal's eyes narrowed with decision and determination. He would deal with that one first, take his sword, then kill the others. He was a Swordmaster of the Atha'an Miere and a Gaidin of the White Tower, while they were only Hawx. It would not be difficult. Especially as they did not appear to have their sneaky blowpipes with them on this occasion…

Soundlessly, Jabal slipped from the shadows, took a half-dozen silent running steps, then broke his crutch over the head of the leader. The hawk-masked soldier went down satisfactorily and Jabal snatched his sword. A nagging feeling hinted that there was something familiar about the fellow he had knocked out, but he ignored it, attacking the others with a fierce battle-shout. They seemed familiar too… the masked guard in the middle had glowing, cobalt eyes… he leapt forward to meet Jabal. The Sea Folk Warder was not entirely sure what happened next, it was all very fast, but he found himself bereft of his blade, lying on his back, a gloved hand gripping him by the throat and Naythan Shieldman grinning down at him, sharp teeth flashing. " _Lionfish!_ " he remarked.

Naythan Gaidin helped him to his feet. In his other hand he was holding Jabal's purloined sword by the blade, with no apparent damage done. He passed it back to Jabal. Whatever his gloves were made of must be quite durable… The remaining two soldiers removed their hawk-masks also. Jabal was unsurprised to see that one of them was the Aielman, Chassin, and very surprised to recognise the other.

"Dagnon Gaidin?" Jabal muttered, as they clasped hands in greeting.

Dagnon's moustaches tilted upwards, indicating that he was smiling. "Well met, Jabal Gaidin! I hoped to find you here."

"But what are you doing in the Land of the Madmen?" Jabal demanded, "and who, then, is looking after my boat?"

Dagnon shrugged. "How we came here is a long story, too long for now, and I could ask the same of you. As for your boat, the _Rivershark_ is perfectly safe, Rashiel and I travelled down the Erinin in her and docked at Tear. The boat is docked in the harbour, the Clan Takana factor is keeping an eye on her."

" _Him_ ," corrected Jabal, adding; "well, if you say so," somewhat doubtfully.

A low groan came from floor-level. They all looked down. The unfortunate Roth Blucha was stirring, clutching at his head. He groaned again.

Jabal raised his eyebrows. "Why, it is that Gleeman friend of Shrina Sedai's!" he commented, "he is here too?"

"Unfortunately, yes," muttered Dagnon, "we tried to leave him behind, but to no avail."

Jabal assisted the groaning Gleeman to rise.

"He will be alright," observed Naythan, "the masked helm took most of the force of the blow."

Jabal aided Roth in removing this item; his head seemed un-bruised.

"Quick, hit him again," Chassin jested, "I was enjoying the silence!"

Naythan and Dagnon laughed softly, Roth glared at them, then fixed Jabal with an accusatory stare. "You whacked me with a piece of wood!" he complained, "why in the Waves did you _do_ that?"

"Forgive me Roth, I thought you the enemy," Jabal explained.

Roth blinked. "It is _you_ , Renn's Sea Folk husband!" he declared, then winced. "My head hurts," he moaned.

Jabal frowned. "How did you know we were married?" he queried.

"Oh, _everyone_ knows, but for the Lady Ellythia… why, it is the worst-kept secret in Tar Valon!"

Jabal scowled, opened his mouth to further interrogate and demand clarification of the foolish Gleeman, but Naythan Gaidin interrupted.

"We can catch up later…" Naythan turned back to the iron grating, sniffing. "I can _smell_ the Aes Sedai down there, but it is faint."

The others looked at one another. "Smell?" muttered Roth.

Naythan Shieldman ignored them, giving the barred gate an experimental shake; it stayed firmly closed. "Anyone got a key?" he wondered. They shook their heads. "Very well. Keep an eye out for more Atha'an Miere assassins armed with hospital equipment while I get this thing open!"

Jabal was accustomed to Naythan Gaidin's odd sense of humour by this point, and did not take the remark amiss, whilst Dagnon and Chassin chuckled. Roth, nursing his wounded head, gave Jabal a spiteful glance, but said nothing. Naythan gripped the iron bars, took a deep breath, and _pulled._ For a long moment, nothing happened… then, with a rending of tortured metal, the gate broke free from its lock and hinges. Naythan leaned it against the wall, turned to the others.

"Come on." They stared at Naythan Shieldman, all but Chassin, who did not seem surprised by this feat of strength. "What?" asked Naythan.

Roth spoke up; he usually did. "You've got funny eyes, pointed ears – yes, I noticed _them_ too! – you can sniff out things from miles away and you just pulled an iron gate off its hinges… what _are_ you?"

"He is the Nightwatcher," Chassin stated, as though this explained everything. "He is not as we; _Vron'cor_ was made by the Creator, to watch over the sleep of-"

"Yes, yes, we know about all of that!" Naythan interrupted hastily, before adding; "I am Lightborn. Strong, fast, and impatient to go and rescue my Aes Sedai!"

"As am I!" Jabal added, fervently.

"So let's save the questions for later, curious Gleeman. Give to the Lionfish your coat and cloak. Your mask, too…"

"Why?" whined Roth, "what am I to do without my disguise?"

"Pose as our prisoner! Come, he already has your sword, you might as well loan him the rest…"

Grumbling, Roth complied. The others put their hawk-masks back on.

"Alright," said Naythan decisively, "we are escorting a captive down to the cells; a spy, caught sneaking around on the beach with a shiny harp and a silly, brightly coloured cloak!" Roth frowned. "If anyone challenges us, let me do the talking. Everyone ready? Let's go, then."

They marched down the steps, Naythan and Jabal in front, Chassin and Dagnon bringing up the rear, with Roth the prisoner in the middle, sulking at his predicament. Jabal felt no concern at being in the heart of the enemy's castle, only steely resolve to rescue his Aes Sedai wife and exact some measure of revenge on the enemy. The steps wound down into the darkness, which duly swallowed them.

* * *

"…and then, Hare, Mouse and Hedgehog went back to their comfortable cottage in the middle of the Briar Patch, and had tea and scones. The End." Jeb, or Rags as he was currently being, finished the story and glanced at the High Princess, might she never die. She was not yet asleep, but was on the verge of it, yawning, sat up in her opulent bed wearing a lacy night-dress.

"Thank-you Rags, that was lovely," Chantel managed to say between yawns, "but what happened to Wildcat?"

"Oh, I expect that he was alright," answered Rags.

"But Hare and the others tricked him into getting stuck in all that mud! It wasn't very nice of them…"

"Well, he was trying to _eat_ them, Highness."

"He's always doing that! So are Bear, Wolf and Fox…" The High Princess Chantel frowned. "You know, I think I'm getting a bit _old_ for these sorts of stories. Don't you know any with _men_ in? Handsome Lords who rescue Princesses from towers, that sort of thing?"

"Your Highness is yet too young for such tales," interjected Severina, sitting in the corner. She did not look up from her knitting. "There will come a time for such things, when you are of an age to wed and continue the illustrious line of the Hawkwing."

Chantel pulled a face. "You're always saying that, Sev… but whom am I to marry? Not my cousin Kor, he is ugly and charmless…"

"But not very harmless!" chanted Rags.

"Shut-up, Rags. Stop rhyming things all the time!"

Severina looked up, aiming her stern gaze at the High Princess. "You are the only female of the High King's descent left to us. You must have daughters of the Blood, to continue the tradition."

"Well, it's a stupid tradition!" objected Chantel.

"And an awkward position!" Rags chimed-in.

"Hush!" The High Princess threw a pillow at Rags, sitting cross-legged on the rug. He ducked, grinning. If Severina had not been present, a pillow fight might have ensued, but she would not approve. Her position, as Chatelaine of the castle, would preclude such rambunctious behaviour. Chantel fixed Rags with a commanding stare.

"Tell me about her, Rags," the High Princess ordered.

"About who, your Majesticness?"

"Who do you _think?_ The first of my line, the one who brought us all here, to this accursed place!" Chantel took a deep breath; "Morgana Paendrag Halicon, of course! Stop being silly, Rags!"

Rags smiled broadly, and summoned the memories. He had been told of this episode by someone – or something – that had actually been present, one thousand years ago, or more. A meeting he did not like to think of, the closest he had come to death in the entirety of his long life. Naturally, he kept this information to himself. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and in the measured cadences of the professional storyteller, began to speak of things that had occurred long, long ago…

 _The High Princess, Morgana Paendrag Halicon, might she never die, lowered the brass-barrelled telescope and frowned, brows drawing down over her dark, imperious eyes._

" _It is not going well," Morgana muttered, "father would be most displeased."_

 _Beside the High Princess, on the quarterdeck of the Golden Hawk, the fleet's enormous flagship, Lord General Telka Malamanes was also frowning. No, he was scowling now, white teeth slightly bared in his dark-skinned face. He was of an ancient House, originally from Moreina, the only nation to declare for the Hawkwing without first recourse to conquest, and his loyalty was above question. He thumped a gloved fist on the polished wooden rail of the quarterdeck and cursed, an unusual display of emotion for him. His piercing blue eyes stared unblinking at the shore, a half mile distant._

 _Both the High Princess and the Lord General wore gold-chased armour, as did the dozen elite guards clustered behind them, standing still as statues. Also in attendance; one of Morgana's maids, a slight, dark-haired girl wearing black, hawk-emblazoned servant's livery. This left barely enough room for the sailors crowding the quarterdeck to do their duty, but they did not complain. When the Blood was present, one kept one's eyes lowered and went about one's tasks, uncomplaining. The Quartermaster stood close to the large wheel that controlled the tiller, tattooed hands gripping the spokes tightly. And the Captain, or Sailmistress as these folk called their commander, raised her own telescope, the hands holding it also tattooed. She examined the scene, then shook her head. "They will never make it, Highness," the Sailmistress commented, fatalistically._

 _The Lord General glared at her. "They are soldiers of the Great Hawkwing!" he snapped, "the elite Guard; some of them were at Endersole and participated in the capture of the False Dragon Guaire Amalasan, as did I! They have been ordered to take the hill – they_ will _take the hill!"_

 _The Sailmistress frowned at Telka, but said nothing._

" _Peace, Lord Telka," Morgana murmured, "we shall see." She returned to examining the battle. To the west of a high-walled trading port, down on the shore, more infantry were disembarking from the landing-boats, raising their shields and setting their spears as they waded through the surf to join the long column of several thousand troops moving up the beach. Their blue, lacquered armour shone in the bright sunlight. They marched beneath several large banners depicting a golden hawk in flight._

 _Clustered around the crown of the hill beyond them were a host of Sharan archers, clad in red coats and loose white trews. The forces of the Hawkwing advanced steadily uphill into a storm of arrows, undeterred by the sheer numbers of dead and wounded they were leaving in their wake. At the top of the hill that was their objective, grouped beneath a pale, silken flag marked with unintelligible glyphs, waited a group of Sharan Nobles, dressed in brightly-coloured robes. They were attended by servants shielding them from the sun with ornate parasols, surrounded in turn by many more of the red-garbed soldiers, armed with long spears. In addition; a score of dark-robed women waited to one side._

 _The Sailmistress had assured Morgana that the white banner indicated that amongst these watching Nobles were the Sh'boan and Sh'botay, the rulers of this strange land that was to be added to the Hawkwing's Empire. If they could be taken, then this war would be over quickly… but the Guard were suffering terrible losses, it seemed that no man amongst them would reach the objective. They would die trying, however._

 _The High Princess Morgana turned to the Sailmistress, Pereta din Chokal Gliding Tern. She was of Clan Tolaman, the only Sea Folk clan to swear allegiance to the High King, Artur Hawkwing, considered outcast by the rest of the Atha'an Miere. A number of Pereta's people were scattered throughout the great fleet of three hundred ships that had been sent to subdue Shara, navigators and steersmen for the most part. Their service had proved invaluable. Many more from Clan Tolaman had gone with Luthair's equally immense fleet to the west, while some remained at the fortress that the Hawkwing had given them in Darmovan, on the ancient site of Miereallen, now called Falme. These shore-bound former Sea Folk watched the waves for their people's return, for the return of Luthair Paendrag Mondwin._

 _Morgana frowned at the thought of her older brother. They were not close. Doubtless, Luthair was somewhere far to the west right now, upon the Isles of the Dead as the Atha'an Miere called them, slaughtering the enemy in vast amounts. That would make him happy, the shedding of blood always did. As a boy, he had tormented domesticated animals in the Palace gardens; as a youth, he had flogged his servants for imagined slights. There was something_ wrong _with Luthair, he was not normal. But when it came to the practice of war, he was more than proficient, almost on a par with his gifted father. The thought of Luthair succeeding where she had failed made Morgana cringe inside. She shook aside such feelings, replacing them with resolve and resolution. It was time to toss the dice..._

"Dovie'andi se tovya sagain," _Morgana whispered, then addressed the Sailmistress, who awaited her orders patiently. "Pereta, signal the ships. Move the fleet in closer and commence bombardment of the town." Morgana turned to Lord General Telka. "Land the Fifth and Seventh Regiments, have them flank the hill to either side." The Sailmistress and General did not question their orders, for all that they were being given by a young woman fighting her first battle. She was Blood of the Hawkwing, had been taught the art of warfare by the High King personally... that was enough._

 _Morgana raised a hand slightly, summoning her maid, who was more than just a maid. The pale-skinned girl came to stand beside her, moving with serpentine grace, dark eyes gazing blankly at the Mistress._

" _What think you of my strategy?" Morgana asked quietly._

 _The maid shrugged. "I know little of warfare on this sort of scale," she stated, in a soft, sinister voice, "but it seems to me that much blood will be spilled, ere the day is done." At the mention of blood, a strange, almost avid look swept briefly over the maid's blank features._

 _Morgana regarded her with vague disgust. "I wish that father had never assigned you to me," she hissed, "I would he had given you to Luthair in stead."_

 _The maid smiled thinly. "The High Prince can look after himself, but you need protecting, Mistress," she pointed-out._

 _Morgana scowled. It was true enough, but she did not have to like it. The High King's court was become a dangerous place. Artur Hawkwing had many enemies, not least in the White Tower, and if they could not reach him, were not above striking at his kin. They had done it before after all, poisoning his first wife Amaline, and their three surviving children. Her 'maid' had saved her life on previous occasions, would doubtless do so again… but there was always a price to be paid, for such a service. Her innocence… and also, perhaps, her soul._

 _Bright signal-flags were hoisted aloft, emphasised by red flashes in the sky as Illuminator's flares were launched and exploded far above, and sails set, the great invasion fleet began to move further into the vast bay. The smaller attack ships spear-headed the assault, sweating artillerymen working the ballista and mangonels emplaced in their bows, and soon fiery pitch-and-straw projectiles were being shot over the high walls of the trading town that was their secondary objective. Meanwhile, further landing-craft were launched, crammed with soldiers, speeding for the beachhead to reinforce their comrades attacking the hill._

 _The High Princess Morgana checked the progress of the battle; through the round aperture of her telescope, she could see that her troops had nearly reached the lines of archers who had been flaying them with arrows. A good half of their number lay dead and dying behind them, but this did not deter the fierceness of their attack, nor affect the precision of their ranks; when a man fell, another stepped smoothly forward to take his place. When a Bannerman was killed, one of his comrades would snatch the flagpole from his dead hands before it could hit the ground and then proudly bear aloft the sigil of the Hawkwing, even though it made him a target. Morgana felt nothing but pride at the discipline and courage of these soldiers of the Empire._

 _At a shouted order, the Sharan archers fell back in orderly columns, replaced by long lines of spearmen. There did not seem to be nearly enough of them to halt the advance of the Hawkwing's soldiers... Morgana glanced at Lord General Telka, who grinned savagely._

" _A tactical error, Highness," Telka assured her, "we shall yet win the day!"_

 _Morgana returned her gaze to the battle, and frowned, worried. The score of dark-robed women that she had observed earlier were filing down from the crown of the hill, approaching the fighting though they did not seem to be armed… they took their places amongst the Sharan spearmen, spaced out at intervals. The Guard were a bare twenty paces away, their objective in clear sight… but then, the front rank exploded; bodies, heads and dismembered limbs flying high into the air. The attack faltered, then the second rank went the way of the first, utterly destroyed. The Hawkwing's forces halted in disarray… and the third rank of soldiers was torn apart by the same terrible forces. It was too much even for the brave men of the Elite Guard. They turned and ran, flinging away their shields, retreating in panic toward the beach and the boats that might carry them to safety._

 _Sharan archers poured yet more arrows into their backs as they fled, the spearmen guarding the dark-robed women as they paced after them with dread purpose, hurling lightning and fireballs into their broken ranks._

 _Morgan tore her gaze away from the horrific scene, her wide eyes meeting those of Lord General Telka._

" _They use the accursed One Power in battle!" Morgana cried, "why were we not warned of this?" They both turned to stare accusingly at the Sailmistress, Pereta. She lowered her telescope, looking stricken._

" _Those women are called 'Ayyad,'" Pereta explained, "I have heard of them from Sharan silk-traders, but never seen one… until now."_

" _They are slaughtering my men!" Telka shouted, "how do we fight against such terrible odds?"_

" _You do not. You should withdraw the fleet, while there is still time."_

" _And leave my troops on the beach? Never!"_

 _Pereta shook her head curtly. "Your men are_ dead _… they were doomed the moment they set foot in the land of Co'dansin without permission. I_ knew _this invasion was an impossible endeavour!" The Sailmistress turned to Morgana; "Highness, I warned your father that this would happen, that we needed Aes Sedai to counter the power of the Ayyad, but the High King would not listen…"_

" _He only listens to Jalwin Moerad these days," Morgana muttered, regretfully. She loathed her father's strange advisor, just being in his presence made her want to bathe… and Moerad loathed the Aes Sedai, in turn. "The Sisters cannot benefit us, inured in their city, surrounded by the our siege lines."_

 _Morgana checked the progress of the battle, which had become a rout. Her surviving men were back at the beachhead, retreating in disorder for the boats… which were now mostly aflame and sinking into the surf._

" _We must send more landing-craft to rescue them!" cried Telka._

 _Morgana shook her head sadly. "No, Pereta is correct. They are lost."_

" _So are_ we! _" shouted the Sailmistress, pointing; "_ look! _"_

 _Long, narrow boats were pulling out from the harbour of the trading port to their lee, dozens of them. Each boat was rowed by chained oarsmen, crammed with more of the Sharan archers… and had a dark-robed Ayyad woman standing in the bow. This close, Morgana could see that their faces were covered with intricate tattoos… it was the last thing that she saw, for a time. A loud explosion, anguished screams, a burst of fierce flame… something struck her and she knew no more. A tide of blackness engulfed Morgana._

 _When the High Princess opened her eyes, crusted with dried blood, the first thing she noticed was that dusk had fallen, hours had passed. She turned her head weakly, moaning in pain. She was lying on the quarterdeck of the Golden Hawk, a folded cloak pillowed beneath her head. Her armour had been removed and her blouse, spotted with dark blood, had been raised so that a bandage could be wound about her midriff. Her maid knelt beside her, watching with dark eyes that held nothing; no pity nor censure, just… nothing. Morgana was accustomed to that._

" _What happened?" Morgana whispered._

" _Terrible things," answered her maid. She approximated a ghoulish smile. "I am glad to see that you yet live, Mistress. We had our doubts…"_

 _Morgana looked down at herself with distaste, spattered with gore. "I am covered in blood!" she cried, feeling sick._

" _Tis not_ your _blood, Mistress," explained the maid, "but the General's. You were standing beside him when he exploded… one of the Ayyad's doing. She tried to kill you, while you lay helpless upon the deck, but I dealt with her." The maid held up something; it was a severed head, a look of surprise on the dark-skinned, heavily tattooed face._

 _Morgana felt her gorge rise. "Throw that horrid thing into the sea and help me up!"_

 _The maid complied. Morgana rose unsteadily, her head spinning, leaning heavily on her maid, much as she disliked being so close to her. The quarterdeck was emptier than it had been, a different Quartermaster at the wheel, a blood-stained bandage wrapped around her brow. A row of dead Guardsmen covered in their cloaks lay against the rail, some feathered with arrows. Three of her Guard yet lived, though all were wounded, they saluted their High Princess smartly. Dismembered pieces of Lord General Telka Malamanes lay everywhere. Morgana tried to ignore this._

 _The Sailmistress had survived the attack, though one arm was supported by a sling. Pereta din Chokal Gliding Tern stood at the rear of the quarterdeck, dark eyes fixed on something. Morgana followed her gaze, and wished that she had not. They stood a league out from land and though it was evening, the bay where they had made their abortive landing was bright as day. Her fleet was burning. Hundreds of majestic ships, the pride of the Hawkwing's navy, were blazing fiercely, thick columns of smoke rising high above, scorched hulls sinking slowly into the sea. Morgana's hopes sunk with them. She glanced around, counting…_

 _Along with the Golden Hawk, there were eleven great-ships grouped around them, all showing signs of fiery damage. A twelfth was sailing slowly out to join them, listing heavily, its hull blackened and charred in places. Thirteen ships! Out of three hundred! What would father say? Morgana had promised that she would add Shara to his Empire… and had failed utterly. How could she return, with barely a squadron of damaged vessels, the bones of his finest soldiers left to bleach under some foreign sun? It could not be borne… it would_ not _be. Morgana made a decision then and there that would have far-reaching consequences long after she was dead…_

 _The Sailmistress turned to regard her with dark eyes that held little in the way of respect for her rank. "Your father, the High King, shall hear of this disaster," she commented, nodding to something further from land. Morgana looked. Three Sea Folk Rakers, elegant, white-sailed ships, were standing out to sea in the distance, heading west on the blue-water trading route, back to the home ports. "The Atha'an Miere will certainly convey the news of your defeat," the Sailmistress continued, implacably, "our eyes shall be lowered forever." She turned her gaze to Morgana's maid, a look of revulsion on her handsome, dark-skinned face. "What is that thing? It is not human, it cannot be. When the Ayyad woman came on board to kill us, her channeling did not affect it. It tore her head from her body, and then…" She trailed off, shaking her head in disgust._

 _Morgana's 'maid' smiled smugly. "And then I fed," it hissed, in its sinister tones, sounding satisfied. It glanced at Morgana and shrugged. "You were unconscious, Mistress, else I would have sought permission," it explained. Morgana noted that there was a spot of blood on its chin. She shuddered._

 _Pereta's eyes narrowed and she gripped the ivory hilt of the short blade tucked through her sash. "What is it?" she demanded._

 _The three remaining Guardsmen tensed, touching their own hilts…one did not address a High Princess of the Blood in such a fashion and expect to live. But Morgana waved for them to leave her presence, which they did reluctantly, descending to the main-deck which was crammed with wounded, as well as soldiers and sailors rescued from other ships._

 _Morgana sighed. "It is called a 'Gholam,'" she told Pereta, "a creature of the Age of Legends. Of the Shadow also, I suspect. How it survived the War and the Breaking I know not, but it served Guaire Amalasan as bodyguard, killing numerous assassins and Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah sent to deal with him…" the Gholam posing as her maid smiled as though at some pleasant memory, "…and then, for some reason, before his final defeat Guaire gifted the Gholam to my father, commanding it to serve the line of the Hawkwing in the same capacity. Why he did this I cannot tell, perhaps under the influence of Prophecy? They say the False Dragon could Foretell the future…"_

" _That he could, Mistress, and accurately too," confided the Gholam._

" _Silence, Gholam! Do not interrupt!" Morgana shrugged. "The High King ordered the Gholam to accompany this expedition, to protect me from harm, my descendants also… and I suppose that it has succeeded in this, thus far."_

" _At the cost of your soul!" spat Pereta, "that thing is evil, and if you call yourself its Mistress, then so are you! I want no part of it – I want it off my ship!"_

 _Morgana scowled. "_ My _ship, I think that you will find. Gholam?"_

" _Yes Mistress?"_

" _Kill her. Do it swiftly, I do not wish for her to suffer."_

 _Smiling cruelly, the Gholam advanced on the Sailmistress with deadly grace. Pereta swept her sword from her sash with her good hand and plunged it into the Gholam's chest. To little avail, no blood spurted from what should have been a fatal wound… for a human. The Gholam's smile widened, it pulled the ivory-hilted blade from its torso and dropped it carelessly to the deck. The wound the sword had made knitted together and closed instantly, leaving just a tear in the servant's livery. The Sailmistress gaped in disbelief; the Gholam lunged forward and seized her to either side of her skull._

" _You really should have been more specific about those Ayyad women," Morgana commented sadly, "we might have saved more lives that way…"_

 _With a sickening snap, the Gholam broke Pereta's neck and the erstwhile Sailmistress of Clan Tolaman slumped bonelessly to the deck. Morgana turned. The Quartermaster was watching over her shoulder, eyes wide, tattooed hands still gripping the wheel._

" _What is your name?" Morgana asked her._

" _Briena din Sochol Flying Fish, Highness!" the Quartermaster stammered._

" _You are Sailmistress now, Briena. My congratulations. Tell me, what lies to the south?"_

" _The south, Highness?"_

" _Yes, the direction which is neither north, east nor west!" Morgana snapped, impatiently._

 _The Sea Folk Quartermaster become Sailmistress thought about it for as long as she dared, her frightened gaze fixed on the Gholam, then spoke; "why, there are the fishing grounds of the Mayeners, which we avoid, the smoking islands that we likewise shun, for tis said the accursed Waketa yet infest them… various small isles, upon which we leave those of our men who begin to channel, the cowardly ones at least, who will not take the path of honour." A note of pride entered Briena's voice; "when my own brother began to touch the Source, he seized upon a ballast stone, held it to his chest and jumped over the side!"_

" _Never mind your damned brother, you fool! Is there anything_ else _down there?"_

" _Only the great southern continent, Highness. It is largely unmapped, and the Clans rarely sail to its shores, though I know not why. Poor trading opportunities, doubtless."_

" _Then we shall go_ there _," announced the High Princess. "I'll not return home with the shame of this defeat lowering my eyes before the Royal Court, so shall take my reduced fleet to these southern lands… though not to trade, but to_ conquer. _"_

 _The new Sailmistress did not argue, simply spun the wheel, shouting instructions to the sailors; they clambered wearily aloft to set sail. Morgana called for her Signals Officer, found out that he was dead, and gave orders to his replacement; soon, colourful flags were fluttering on their lines and in response, the small flotilla turned south._

 _Morgana nodded, satisfied. Her destiny awaited… she felt eyes on her and turned. The Gholam, which really made for a very poor maidservant, yet crouched beside the corpse of the insubordinate Sailmistress who had dared to defy her. It stared at its Mistress expectantly…_

 _Morgana sighed. "Very well, Gholam," she allowed, "you may feed."_

"Eurgh!" exclaimed the High Princess Chantel, "drinking all that blood! How horrid!"

Rags grinned. Severina put down her knitting, eyeing him coldly. "That was hardly a fit story for a child," she chided. It was the Chatelaine's long-standing habit to keep the High Princess inured from reality as much as possible… for example, she had earlier warned Rags to stay silent regarding the regrettable escape of the prisoners. He had complied.

"I am no child, Sev! I am thirteen and one half!" protested Chantel, "and besides, I thought Rag's tale was interesting." She yawned hugely. "Especially the bit about the golem…" she added, drowsily.

" _Gholam,_ " Rags corrected her, "or the Deathless One, as they used to call it, around here…"

Severina sniffed disapprovingly. "A vile creature, a wreaking of witches," she muttered, "I recall seeing it as a girl… they would feed it pig's blood."

"Poor pigs," commented Chantel tiredly, lying back against the pillows. "Whatever became of the Gholam?" she asked the ceiling.

"It disappeared a generation ago," answered Severina, "and good riddance!"

"It took your uncle with it," Rags mentioned.

"Mmm. Poor Uncle Coratano… he could channel and was a bit mad, they say."

He was more than that, Rags, or Jeb, thought to himself, wondering what had become of his unfortunate apprentice. No doubt the Gholam had managed to break its conditioning, and ate him alive.

Chantel closed her eyes. "If I had been Morgana, I would _never_ have brought my people here. I should have gone back home and begged forgiveness of my father."

"Her honour would not permit it," explained Severina.

"Honour is a highly overrated concept," whispered Chantel, and then fell fast asleep.

Jebedah Chul Simanon; Gleeman, Bard, Fool and Laughing God, smiled at the High Princess with fondness and pride. He had taught her well.

* * *

The spiral stairs went down for quite a long way, then ended at a heavy, oaken door, braced with iron. It proved to be locked. N'aethan considered kicking it open, but then knocked loudly upon it with the pommel of his sword instead. He turned to the others; they had all drawn their swords also, even Chassin, who was holding his gingerly, an expression of distaste on his scarred face. They looked eager, but for the Gleeman, who was clearly still sulking about having to be the prisoner. N'aethan grinned. This Roth Blucha was a strange fellow! Were all Gleemen as he? When he got back to the Westlands, he would find out…

Heavy footsteps approached from the other side of the door and a small hatch at head-height was pulled open, revealing a rather brutish face. " _What do you want?_ " demanded the ugly fellow, in the Old Tongue.

" _We have a prisoner for you,_ " N'aethan responded, trying to approximate the local accent, keeping his eyes hooded for fear that the man on the other side of the door – the Gaoler, presumably – would notice that they glowed in the dark.

The Gaoler frowned. " _I wasn't informed,_ " he grumbled, but unbolted and opened the door anyway. They marched inside. The leather-clad Gaoler ignored the four hawk-masked 'guards' and looked Roth up and down disparagingly. " _What is he, a Souvraniene?_ " he asked.

" _Um… no,_ " N'aethan replied, " _a spy._ "

" _One of the Laughing God's men?_ "

" _Yes. Yes he is…_ "

" _Why have you all got your swords drawn?_ " the Gaoler demanded, suspiciously.

" _Because the prisoner is dangerous!_ "

" _He doesn't_ look _dangerous. He looks like a skinny drink of water, to me!_ "

Roth glared at the Gaoler. " _Thou art no oil painting thyself!_ " he snapped.

Dagnon slapped Roth across the back of the head. " _Silence, poisoner!_ " he growled, revealing that he could speak the Old Tongue too, if in a somewhat rudimentary fashion.

"Ow!" complained Roth.

The Gaoler blinked, then eyed them all with further suspicion… " _Who are you? I've never seen you before…_ " he stared at N'aethan, " _...and what's wrong with your eyes, fellow, do you have a fever?_ "

" _Tsag!_ " cursed N'aethan, frustrated, then shot out a gloved hand, clamping powerful fingers down on the Gaoler's carotid artery. His eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped to the floor, N'aethan neatly snatching the large ring of keys from his belt as he fell. "I can't stand people who ask too many questions," N'aethan muttered, in the Vulgar, before stepping over the Gaoler's limp body and continuing down a dark stone corridor, dimly lit with guttering candles. The others followed, all but Chassin, who crouched, preparing to run one of his knives across the Gaoler's throat. Fortunately for the lumpish fellow, N'aethan glanced back and noticed.

"What are you doing, Chassin?"

"Waking him, Nightwatcher."

"No need for that. With any luck, we'll be gone before he comes to."

Chassin shrugged and rose, sheathing his knife and holding his sword awkwardly. "If the others of my Warrior Society saw me bearing a dishonourable blade, I would never hear the end of it," he complained.

Dagnon shook his head. "It took much argument on my part to get him to leave his spears behind and pick up a sword," he explained.

N'aethan smiled dangerously. "Where are the rest of the Shaidos, anyway?" he asked Chassin, "it is not like Cohradin to miss a fight."

"It is _now!_ " snarled Chassin, getting something off his chest, "you spoke falsely to us, _Vron'cor!_ We were _not_ mighty warriors in the Age of Legends, as you confirmed! We were the Da'shain Aiel and followed the cowardly Leaf Way, as do the pitiful Lost Ones!"

N'aethan sighed. "It takes more bravery than any of _us_ have, to follow the Way of the Leaf," he argued. Chassin merely glared at him, declining to comment. "Who told you?"

"The troublesome Tomanelle Water Seeker, Ruon!"

"Oh. Who is he?"

"One of our crew," Dagnon revealed, "a strange man, not much like an Aiel anymore. When the pirates attacked, he just stood there, waiting to be killed."

"Mmm, he seemed rather disappointed that he _wasn't,_ " added Roth.

"I have _toh_ to you, for the lie," N'aethan told Chassin, "to the others, also… so they are not here because..?"

"They have gone completely mad, Nightwatcher! Gerom thinks that he is Gai'shain and carries water all day, whilst Cohradin believes himself to be Da'tsang – when last I saw him, he was digging deep pits on the beach and then filling them in again!"

N'aethan frowned. "This is ill news… and Manda?"

"She went to seek you, _Vron'cor._ I know not where she is. Somehow, you must convince Cohradin and Gerom that they are yet _algai'd'siswai_ and thus put an end to their insane foolishness!"

N'aethan nodded thoughtfully. "I think I may know how to do that…"

Jabal made an impatient sound; they all looked at him. "Are we not supposed to be rescuing the Aes Sedai?" he reminded them.

N'aethan blinked his strange eyes. "Yes, of course. We shall speak of this later, Chassin."

Chassin nodded, then glanced down as the Gaoler groaned and stirred on the floor; the short Aielman kicked him neatly in the head and he lapsed into unconsciousness once more.

At the end of the long corridor was another door, unlocked this time. It opened onto a wider hallway lined with heavy cell doors, two of which stood ajar. A soldier was just emerging from one of them, a disgruntled look on the lower half of his face. The upper half was covered by the obligatory hawk-mask, but this one differed in that a short red plume bobbed at the top of it. Some sort of Captain then, N'aethan surmised. And he was not alone; a dozen more hawk-masked soldiers stood at the end of the hall, where it opened out into a guard-room. Another cell door stood open down there.

The Captain regarded them with disfavour. " _Who is this?_ " he demanded, pointing at Roth.

" _A dangerous Souvraniene!_ " N'aethan answered smartly, having decided to abandon the spy story.

The Captain scowled. " _Well, put him in a cell, we have three empty ones at the moment, thanks to that idiot Gaoler… or just execute the wretch, I care not._ "

N'aethan sniffed the air. The scent of the Aes Sedai was faint, if they were imprisoned here, it would have been stronger… three Sisters, three empty cells… " _Have the Aes Sedai escaped?_ " he enquired.

" _Of course they have, you idiot! The witches used their dark powers to put the Gaoler to sleep and open the doors, then doubtless flew away into the night! How is it that you do not…_ " The Captain trailed-off, examining them more closely, his suspicion matching and even exceeding that of the Gaoler. " _Wait – who are you? I haven't seen you before…_ " The soldiers at the end of the hall were taking note of the exchange, they began to pace towards them, hands on the hilts of their swords.

N'aethan was about to respond, but Dagnon unfortunately beat him to it. " _We are fresh!_ " he announced, having confused this with the word for 'new.'

The Captain frowned. " _Moustaches are against regulations!_ " he snapped. His cold eyes moved to Chassin. " _So are braids, and you're too_ short _to be in the Guard!_ " Chassin scowled. The Captain eyed Jabal. " _Your hands are tattooed, Sea Folk scum!_ " Finally, it was N'aethan's turn to be appraised and dismissed; " _and you… well, I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is something just plain_ wrong _about you!_ "

"You _are_ a suspicious person, aren't you?" N'aethan growled, in the Vulgar.

" _Enemies! Impersonating Guardsmen! Kill them!_ " The Captain unsheathed his sword, which appeared to be Power-wrought, and the soldiers surged forward, drawing their own blades.

N'aethan held up a gloved hand. " _Wait!_ " he shouted. Surprisingly, they did so. " _I will make this perfectly simple,_ " N'aethan suggested, " _I mislike killing humans, so you can either drop your swords, get in the cells and be locked in… or we will slay you all!_ "

The soldiers looked at each other, some smiling coldly. The Captain laughed harshly. " _You must be as mad as your prisoner,_ " he scoffed, " _we are the Hawx Guard. Even the Laughing God's men fear us!_ "

" _I have faced a Gholam and lived,_ " N'aethan responded, without bravado, " _I know not what fear_ is." In three quick, blurring steps he was in sword range of the Captain and a lightning fast Desert Whirlwind took the masked head clean off. Blood gushed from the stump of his neck and the decapitated corpse collapsed to the stone floor, a marionette with its strings cut. N'aethan stepped over the Captain's headless body and regarded the soldiers. They stared at him, astonished. " _Who is next?_ " he asked, quietly.

The fight did not last very long, but longer than it should have, given that the close confines of the hallway made things more awkward. N'aethan shifted from form to form, blocking and striking, killing his opponents with workmanlike precision, but none of the fierce joy he felt when slaying Shadowspawn. Chassin discarded his sword immediately and set to work with his knives, methodically butchering any soldiers that came near. Dagnon and Jabal, both Blademasters, swiftly accounted for the few Guards that got past the Aielman and the Lightborn. And Roth… N'aethan turned away from his last kill, a big man who had moved pitifully slowly compared with him, cleaning his blade on his cloak, and noticed the Gleeman backed against the wall. Roth had a deep cut in his cheek, his hand pressed to it. The other hand held the long knife he kept in his boot, and the blade was bloody. At his feet lay a dead hawk-masked soldier, slighter than most of the others.

Roth glanced up at N'aethan as he approached, then his eyes returned to the corpse. "I've killed men before, when the need arose," he mumbled, "but never a _woman._ I feel sick." Then, his eyes widened and he plucked the blade from the female soldier's cold hand. "This is Shrina's sword," he exclaimed, "I recognise the fine poetry on it!"

N'aethan scanned the lines of verse engraved on the blade and raised his eyebrows. "This was clearly written by someone with an extremely vivid imagination," he commented.

"Thank you!" said Roth.

Chassin came over and regarded Roth's wound approvingly. "There, now you have your first scar, Gleeman," he declared, "Manda shall warm to you when she sees it, and be much enamoured of your looks; you shall get no rest that night!"

"I'm a married man now, Maidens of the Spear are no longer on the menu, I am afraid!" Roth's eyes widened. "Ysmet! _She_ is the one who wanted a duelling scar, not me! She'll either be very angry, or very appreciative." He considered a moment. "Probably _both_ , knowing her!"

N'aethan shrugged, wondering what it would be like to be married. Middle Brother had seemed to enjoy it… while it lasted, at least. He went over to the dead Captain and prized his sword from stiff fingers. Yes, definitely Power-wrought, a Warman's blade, like his own. Dagnon already had one with a Heron-mark, Chassin would not be interested… he glanced at Jabal. "Lionfish! You would like this?"

The Sea Folk Warder shook his head. "It is too long for me, Naythan Gaidin, I prefer a shorter blade. Besides, I will take back my own sword from that son of the sands, Kor, and kill him with it, if it is the last thing I do!" Jabal thought about it briefly, then held out a tattooed hand. "But I will take it for now, and give it to one of the Twins, when we find them."

N'aethan passed him the sword, then walked down the hallway towards the guard-room, stepping over corpses and trying not to get blood on his boots, though it was difficult. Dagnon was already there, exploring the room. There were some wooden chests stacked in the corner, he opened one. N'aethan went over to look, Jabal following. There were various items inside, including three wadded shawls, with blue, green and brown fringes. N'aethan took the blue-trimmed shawl and held it to his face, inhaling Ellythia Sedai's achingly familiar sweet scent. Where was she? She had not waited, seemingly, but had escaped before he could come and rescue her… _that_ was not how it happened in the stories!

"This is Renn's," Jabal exclaimed, holding up a brooch in the shape of the white tooth, or flame as they called it now. Kiam Sedai's old soldier's _angreal._ Though now it had a new owner… "Her _angreal!_ " An ebony staff leant against the wall, Jabal grabbed it. "Her special stick, also! Why would Renn leave without them?"

N'aethan put it as diplomatically as possible. "Renn Sedai, while a fine scholar, is not the most observant of people… mayhap she did not notice her staff and _angreal_ when she escaped?"

Jabal frowned, but then nodded. "You may have a point."

Dagnon opened another chest. "Saddlebags," he commented.

" _Our_ saddlebags," Jabal qualified. There were six of them, all fairly heavy. And beneath…

N'aethan grinned delightedly. "My things!" He pulled out a long, tubular bag that held his clothes and a few items that he had taken from the Cenotaph, including his fiddle case, sticking out of the top. He opened it to make sure the sung-wood fiddle was still inside. It was. No sign of the Howling Axe, though, and a brief search confirmed that it was not in any of the other chests. The Hawx must keep their purloined weapons elsewhere, in some sort of armoury, perhaps. N'aethan frowned. Big Brother would have been angry with him, for losing his dread weapon that had ended the miserable lives of so many foul Shadow-wrought. He _must_ find it… but now was not the time. Ellythia Sedai and her friends were more important than the Axe.

Roth and Chassin came into the guard-room, leaving bloody footprints behind them. Roth had Shrina Sedai's sword tucked through his belt. His deep cut was still bleeding. N'aethan dug a small field-dressing out of the physic-pack hidden beneath his hawk-emblazoned coat and passed it to the Gleeman. Roth tore off the outer layer and pressed it to his cheek. His look of surprise as the dressing adhered to his skin, shaping itself to the wound, was comical.

" _Déjà vu!_ " muttered N'aethan.

"What was that?" asked Roth.

"Never mind."

Roth noticed the fiddle. "Do you play?" he enquired.

"I scrape out a tune or two," N'aethan answered modestly.

Chassin had gone over to a large hatch set amongst the flagstones in the opposite corner. "Hoy!" he called, to gain their attention, "the Aes Sedai must have gone this way…" He pulled at the ring set in the hatch but it would not budge. "Nightwatcher! Assist me!"

N'aethan went to the hatch and with a grunt of effort, ripped it open, tearing a heavy bolt free from its hasp. A wooden ladder stretched down into the darkness. They descended it one-at-a-time, burdened with saddlebags, N'aethan going first. He reached a stone floor and stood, gazing at a row of empty barrels, quite the largest barrels he had ever seen. Not that he had seen many barrels, of course, the containers of his time had been more advanced. The others did not have the benefit of his night-vision and blundered about in the gloom, bumping into each other, until N'aethan produced his _sar_ -light.

"Here," N'aethan said to Roth, handing the device to him, "you can light our way, Gleeman."

Roth examined the _sar_ -light with interest. "What is this?" he wondered.

"It is a bowl of mushroom soup! What do you _think_ it is? It is a _sar_ -light, of course!"

"Alright, no need to be sarcastic… where did you get all of these strange items?" Roth wanted to know.

"They come from the Age of Legends," Chassin explained.

"Very funny, Aielman. No really, where did you-"

"Would someone _please_ hit the Gleeman on the head again?!" N'aethan requested, exasperated.

The others laughed, all but Roth, who frowned and muttered under his breath.

Squinting, N'aethan examined the stone floor. The residual heat of a half-dozen sets of footprints crossed it, stopping at the last enormous barrel in the row. He approached it… were they inside? Why would they hide in a barrel? He knocked on it with his knuckles. It sounded hollow… it must open, a hidden catch of some kind…

Roth guessed his intent. "Allow me." He ran his long fingers over the barrel's end, pushing and probing at the wooden surface. "Ah-ha!" Roth pressed something, there was a muted clicking sound, and he swung the circular wooden surface open on a hidden hinge, revealing an empty interior, a passageway hewn through rock beyond. The heat-prints resumed, leading into the darkness.

"Now we are getting somewhere," N'aethan growled, slipping into the empty barrel and thence, the tunnel beyond. Roth walked close behind, holding up the _sar-_ light importantly, the others following-on. Chassin came last, he swung the barrel top closed behind him, latching it shut. The stone passage went on for a long time, and after a while, N'aethan's sharp ears detected the sound of breaking waves at the end of it, his keen nose picking up the smell of salt in the stale air. Clearly, the passageway led to the far end of the island… the Aes Sedai had no boat, presumably, so hopefully they would still be there, awaiting them. He was going to kiss Ellythia Sedai until she was quite breathless! And when they were alone together, do other things besides! His anticipation faded as the passage opened out into a long cave, and disappeared altogether when he saw that his beloved Aes Sedai and her companions were not there. Just the body of an old woman, sprawled on the damp sand…

N'aethan looked down at her sadly. The dead woman wore a drab grey dress, had long silver hair, was entirely unremarkable. And she had been killed with the Power, he could tell. Not _saidar_ either. _Saidin._

"Have a care," N'aethan warned the others, "there is a Madman about."

"I see a ship!" called Jabal, who had gone to stand at the edge of the surf, leaning on Renn's staff.

N'aethan hastened over to join him, using his sharp vision to discern more than even the keen-eyed Sea Folk Warder could detect. The ship was far out to sea, moving away from them. It was a long, low galley, two banks of oars to each side, rising and falling to the distant, muted beat of a drum. And up on the quarterdeck, surrounded by red-masked _souvraniene_ of the kind he had slain in the forest near to the _Collam Aman_ … four women, their hands bound in front of them. N'aethan cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted; " _Ellyth!_ " but her head did not turn, she did not hear, the galley was too far away.

In desperation, N'aethan began to wade into the water, knowing it was futile, the galley with the prisoners on board too distant and moving too fast… but Jabal put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

"Wait, Naythan Gaidin, there are lionfish." He scowled. "Unless that was another lie of the thieving dog, Kor!"

"What are these lionfish that you are named for?" N'aethan asked absently, his eyes fixed on the receding galley.

"Something that you do not wish to swim amongst!" Jabal's expression became serious. "Did you see Renn as well?" he asked, quietly.

"Yes. Shrina Sedai too."

"Curses!" hissed Roth, who had joined them.

"And a stranger, a woman with a tattooed face, she was a prisoner as well."

"That would be Dara," Jabal mused, "the Ayyad woman."

N'aethan did not ask who she was, did not particularly care. He stared at the galley as it turned west, disappearing into the night. His mind was working furiously, planning, considering his limited options… "I know where they must be going," he speculated.

"Where?" enquired Jabal.

"The Midnight City. Larcheen."

"Never heard of it," muttered Roth. "So what do we do now?"

"Nothing has changed. The Aes Sedai still need rescuing. So we shall rescue them." N'aethan glanced at Roth; "where are the other _Sovin Nai_?"

Chassin joined them. "Back at the camp of Ysmet Mitsobar, Nightwatcher," he answered before Roth could, "but as I told you, they are sworn to peace in battle, now." He frowned. "Well, Gerom is, at least... as for Cohradin, who can say what he is sworn to, besides his own foolishness? But I doubt he will participate in the coming Dance either..."

"We shall see about that! First things first, we need to get off this accursed island. How did you and Roth and Dagnon get here, Chassin?"

"In the longboat," Roth answered before Chassin could, "it waits for us offshore. A signal with the lantern will summon it, but I can't recall what-"

"Two long flashes, one short," Dagnon muttered scathingly, scowling at the Gleeman as he joined them.

N'aethan nodded. "Very well, I can move faster on my own. You wait here... bury the old woman while I'm gone, I don't know who she was but we shouldn't leave her for the crabs to feast upon. I'll skirt the castle, head back to the beach and fetch the boat, then we'll come and get you."

"And what then?" demanded Jabal.

N'aethan looked very grim for a moment, his pupils slitting dangerously. "And then, we'll gather reinforcements, go to Larcheen, redeem the Aes Sedai from captivity… and _kill_ the _k'jasic_ Laughing God!"

As N'aethan ran swiftly into the night, he heard Roth Blucha's voice raised in concern; "whatever you do, don't forget to bring back my harp and cloak!"


	8. 0 : Interlogue

**Gleeman Bob writes:** _the foolish Gleeman humbly apologises for not posting anything new in the last two months, but having got to the middle of ItLotM, he decided to take a break. instead of writing, he has been driving his jo-car aimlessly around the countryside, assembling flat-pack furniture, returning video tapes, exploring the interiors of magic wardrobes and unsuccessfully attempting to decipher the final code of the Zodiac!_

 _of course, mid-way through the book can mean only one thing - yes, I am afraid that it is Interlogue time! this spurious word still does not appear in the Oxford English dictionary, but if I keep using it, maybe one day it will! and I promise that the following tale (or two tales) is a lot more relevant to the main narrative than usual. not that that is saying much... but I was compelled to relate the final chapter in the long story of Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai._

 _on a side note, is it me, or is the Wheel of Time fanfiction page a bit quiet these days? only two other Gleepersons have posted anything in the intervening period... it certainly used to be a busier creative forum, currently it reminds me of a once-popular nightclub that now contains more actual staff than patrons. which I suppose makes me the annoying drunk guy in the corner, dancing by himself! I just thought that with the prospect of a WoT TV show in production, there might be a bit more interest in all things Wheelsome... and assuming it happens, I hope it won't be as bad as that Shannara abomination! that was AWFUL! but wouldn't Steve Buscemi make a perfect Padan Fain?!_

 _and lastly, a big thank you to those who are now following In the Land of the Madmen... if you keep reading, I shall keep writing._

 _Walk in the Light!_

* * *

 **In the Land of the Madmen – Interlogue**

 _ **Two Quests and One Death**_

 **The Southern Blight - 331AB**

"Do not touch that, Mistress. It is dangerous."

Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai of the White Ajah (which she had personally founded) did not glance at her Warder on hearing his warning, did not take her dark, tilted eyes off the strange creature that clung to the spongy bough of the warped tree. It had long, multi-jointed legs, six in number, which were attached at paired intervals to its thick, twig-like body. There did not appear to be an actual head, but two twitching antennae extended from what she assumed was its front end. Kiam slowly withdrew her hand from the creature's vicinity. She had not been intending to touch it, whatever Raolin Gaidin assumed, had merely been attempting to provoke some sort of reaction. When it came, said reaction took her entirely by surprise – without warning, the stick-like creature sprang at her face.

With the speed of a striking cobra, a gloved hand shot into Kiam's field of vision, catching the attacking creature in mid-air and crushing the life from it with a nauseating squelching sound. Raolin dropped the twisted remains to the damp ground, glanced at his leather gauntlet, stained with sticky green slime, and unconcernedly wiped the substance off on his fancloth cloak.

"It is called a 'stick,' Mistress," Raolin muttered in explanation, "when it bites, it injects a venom that turns the blood to jelly. Sometimes, an immediate amputation can save your life… more often, not." His voice was as toneless as ever, deep and resonant.

Kiam inclined her head. "My thanks, Gaidin. Truly, you are a mine of information."

Raolin merely nodded in response. He was a tall man, handsome in a stern sort of way, with a grave disposition that made him seem older than his twenty-one years. He had been Kiam's Warder for three of those years, and though she had been Aes Sedai since long before his grandfather's grandfather was born, she often felt that there was little perceived disparity in their ages, that the young Gaidin somehow almost equalled her in experience. He had an old soul, as the adage went, and had seemed familiar to her at their first meeting, which was part of the reason why she had Bonded him... that combined with his impressive martial skills. The first Warder she had chosen in more than a hundred years, and certainly the last Warder she would have in this lifetime, that much was certain. But the familiarity… perhaps she had known Raolin in a former incarnation, an old comrade from the War, even?

Kiam shook her head slightly, mentally chiding herself. Such idle fancies often preyed upon her imagination of late, it was symptomatic of her great age, she supposed. And this was hardly the place to lose oneself in idle speculation. This was, after all, the Great Blight.

Raolin Gaidin turned, moving away from his Aes Sedai with customary deadly assurance, checking the vicinity for further dangers. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw and strike in an instant. The long, curved blade was marked with a Heron. Raolin was young to bear a Blademaster's weapon, but if the stories were even half-true, he had done more than enough to earn it. His straight, jet-black hair hung most of the way down his broad back, bound with a sliver filigreed clip, marking him out as a man of Aren Mador, the Lake City. Kiam recalled when it had a different name, when it had been Aren Deshar in the Age of Legends, as they called the previous era now… but there were few others alive today who remembered anything from that lost time.

Kiam sighed. She was _old_ , ridiculously old, she had never imagined that she would live _this_ long. And she was weary, so very weary. By rights, she should be back at the White Tower with the other senescent Sisters, teaching the young novices how to be Aes Sedai, passing on the torch to future generations that they might serve humanity in protecting it from the Shadow… and itself. But instead, here she was, she and her companions, travelling through the most dangerous place in the world, going to see the Green Man. One final adventure, and then she could rest.

Satisfied that no further dangerous creatures lurked within the humid, tortured forest that immediately surrounded them, Raolin turned, his dark, implacable gaze passing briefly over Kiam, before snapping back to her. He blinked. She felt a flash of momentary confusion through the Bond.

"What is it, Raolin?" Kiam enquired.

"Forgive me, Mistress, but I am yet unused to seeing you… clad thus."

Kiam smiled. In addition to his Warder's cloak, Raolin wore the standard garb of a Gaidin of the Tower, an olive green coat with matching trews tucked into dark boots. She, on the other hand, was almost entirely clothed in fancloth! It had been some time since she had worn her old camouflaged apparel, but the fancloth gown still fit, she yet retained the slender figure of her youth, even if her hair was a good deal whiter than it had been in the days of the War.

"I wear it for old time's sake, Raolin," Kiam commented levelly, "though you are far from being the first to find it odd. Vora Aes Sedai, whom I stood 'prentice to, always thought my fancloth dresses an affectation, but permitted me them even so."

Kiam sighed again. She must be the last person living who remembered dear old Vora and her formidable personality, for all that she had ensured that her mentor's name would live on forever in her testament to the White Tower at its founding – Vora's _sa'angreal_. Her old friends Karella Fanway and Mitsora Caal had been dead near a century and Elisane Tishar, the first Amyrlin Seat, had passed away some fifty years ago. The Hall had tried to make Kiam the next Watcher of the Seals, but she had firmly refused that debatable honour. Instead, the new Amyrlin was Mabriam en Shareed, formerly Queen of Aramaelle, Aes Sedai of the Grey Ajah and architect of the Compact of the Ten Nations, a wise choice in Kiam's opinion. Like her predecessor, Mabriam was reputed to be _ta'veren_.

But of all those who had begun the seven Ajah and laid the foundation stones of the White Tower, only she and Azille Narof were left… though Kiam suspected that the former head of the Red Ajah would prefer it otherwise. Some years previously, Azille's excessive zeal regarding the elimination of male channelers had finally proved her downfall. For the crime of executing innocents without authorisation of Amyrlin or Hall, Azille and several of her more fanatical followers had been severed. Or stilled, as they called it now. The last time Kiam had seen Azille, the diminutive penitent had been wearing dull grey servant's livery whilst being engaged in mucking-out one of the Tower stables. They had not spoken to each other, despite being extremely old enemies, in every sense of the word. What was there left to say?

A rustling in the blighted bushes and Raolin had his sword out in a split-second, taking a swift step to place himself between his Mistress and whatever was approaching. It turned out to be Aldor Gaidin. The large, ruddy-faced Warder was blonde and blue-eyed, as was often the case with those of Coremanda, and Kiam thought that he and his brother, Baltus, rather resembled _Da'shain_. Though the bared blade in Aldor's left hand arguably dispelled this impression...

Raolin and Aldor nodded to each other and sheathed their swords with single deft movements. Then, the big Warder bowed to Kiam. "Excuse me for disturbing you, Kiam Aes Sedai, but Caraighan wishes to depart soon, by your leave."

Kiam noted two things – firstly; that Aldor was persisting in appending the full 'Aes Sedai' to her name rather than merely 'Sedai,' in spite of her repeatedly having told he and his brother not to… and secondly; that Caraighan obviously did not require her Warders to attach any honorific at all to _her_ name! The younger Sisters - and Caraighan had barely passed her first century - seemed rather lax about the formalities between Aes Sedai and their Gaidin. But then, Caraighan was a Green, and they were notoriously informal with their Warders. To the point of bedding them, in some cases! It would not have been tolerated in _her_ day… the Lightborn had _always_ called her 'Kiam Sedai,' even when he was angry with her.

Kiam turned away from the tainted vegetation that she had been studying with some interest and started back toward their camp-site with the same economy of grace that she had exhibited in her youth, for all that her joints were rather troubling her these days. Raolin fell into step with her, a trusty and extremely dangerous shadow.

"Very well, if the celebrated Caraighan Maconar requires my presence, I shall not presume to delay," Kiam announced.

Aldor blinked, but did not comment, leading the way back to where the horses, his brother and their Aes Sedai waited. Kiam glanced around her as they walked. Only a day's travel beyond the Aramaelle watch-towers and the terrain was unrecognisable. She had not been back to the Blight in a very long time, a half-millennia, almost. It was like something out of a particularly severe nightmare; the twisted, tormented trees and suppurating, rotting vegetation, the warped flora and fauna that could kill the unwary in an instant. And the _heat_! It was midwinter back in the Westlands but here, an oppressive humidity reigned over the elements.

"Was the Blight always this bad?" Kiam wondered to herself, "or has it actually got _worse?_ "

Neither Warder chose to comment. Protecting Aes Sedai from harm was their reason for living, and in the current locale, their redoubtable skills were being tested to the very limit. Both Gaidin kept their hands on their hilts, while their eyes seemed to watch everywhere at once.

Ahead, the deadly forest gave way to a small clearing. Five horses stood tethered to one side; three stallions, two black and a piebald, all Tower-trained warhorses, as well as a couple of mares. Kiam smiled fondly at the sight of her graceful mount, Snowdrop, long mane plaited with white ribbons. The pale, thoroughbred Essenian racehorse tossed her head and whinnied at Kiam's appearance. The other mare was a dun-coloured animal, unlovely to look upon but capable of a rare turn of speed. Its rider rose from the log that had been serving her as a seat and regarded Kiam coolly as she approached.

Caraighan Maconar was tall, almost able to look her large Warders in the eye, her long, intricately braided hair auburn, her eyes an unusual blue-grey in hue. She would have been accounted more than merely attractive had she chosen to smile with greater frequency; as it was, her full lips were set in a grim line, her flinty gaze, that had given even rioting mobs pause, levelled at Kiam.

"You should not venture into the forest needlessly, Kiam," Caraighan warned, in the clipped, precise accents of Aridhol, "it is perilous."

"Oh, I know," Kiam responded breezily, "in fact, I was attacked by a twig!"

Caraighan raised her reddish eyebrows and her second Warder, Baltus, glanced at his brother questioningly. Aldor merely shrugged. The two were twins, practically identical, though Aldor was left-handed and Baltus right; one could tell them apart from which side of their belts they buckled their swords. They were big, powerful men of the sort who often took to soldiering, though the brother's abilities with blade and lance had surpassed those of their comrades enough to see them sent to Tar Valon to train as Warders.

" _Stick_ , Mistress," Raolin murmured apologetically, "it is called a 'stick.'"

"My thanks, Raolin Gaidin. Stick it is." Kiam shrugged. "Well, they certainly did not have these stick things in _my_ day, when we of the War Ajah guarded the Northborder. They must be some new and foul spawning of the Blight."

Aldor and Baltus were staring at Kiam with something like awe. She knew what they were thinking… to actually stand in the presence of someone who had fought in the War of Power, who had known the Dragon, and later served under Shadar Nor in the northern wars against the Renegades… someone who had personally slain three Tainted Companions, who had lived through the Breaking of the World and been instrumental in founding Tar Valon and the White Tower...

Caraighan, on the other hand, was certainly _not_ gazing upon Kiam with awe, far from it. Though relatively young for an Aes Sedai, Caraighan Maconar had already acquired a somewhat legendary status of her own. She had diffused a dangerous situation in Comaidin, where rioters might have run amok but for her timely intercession. Then, there was that bad business in Mosadorin, when Caraighan had been the only Aes Sedai present during a bloody revolt; it was said that she had dealt with the threat through force of personality alone, without recourse to the One Power. She clearly had great potential, and it was whispered in the Tower that she might one day be Amyrlin Seat. And of course, she was very strong in the Power, more so than most of her contemporaries. Worryingly, each new generation of Aes Sedai seemed a little weaker than the last. This strength added to Caraighan's status, though the new tradition of deference based on capacity for channeling troubled Kiam. It was too much like something that men would institute amongst themselves...

Kiam found the younger, Aridholi Aes Sedai rather irritating, though the lack of veneration she evinced was certainly refreshing. She was not exactly sure why she had allowed Caraighan to accompany her on this final quest, apart from the fact that two additional Gaidin might prove useful. Though none of their party hailed from the borderlands of Jaramide or Aramaelle, the three Warders all had extensive experience of the Blight.

Kiam sought the fabled Green Man, there was a message that she needed Someshta to pass on for her, but she was going there for another reason besides. Caraighan and her Warders, on the other hand, seemed more interested in seeking the Eye of the World, the legendary site that the ancient Nym guarded. Kiam had overheard Aldor and Baltus enthusiastically discussing the possibility.

"We should go," Caraighan stated, not quite an order, but no mere suggestion either.

"But of course," Kiam agreed smoothly, moving toward Snowdrop while Baltus kicked dirt over the small camp-fire and Aldor gathered up the saddlebags. Raolin vaulted effortlessly into the saddle of his piebald warhorse, Killer, the animal snorting fiercely and rolling his eyes towards Caraighan's dun mare, which appeared to be in season. Better the Gaidin had brought geldings, which were no longer interested in that sort of thing, but Warders of the Tower had a penchant for stallions. Raolin quieted his warhorse with practiced ease, guiding him away from the mare as Caraighan scrambled awkwardly into her own saddle, green woollen skirts hampering her movements. Her twin Gaidin followed her example, mounting their warhorses.

Kiam smirked, then opened herself to _saidar_. Light as a feather, she drifted upwards from the damp ground and floated over to settle upon Snowdrop's back. Caraighan watched her brief flight with ill-disguised envy, the Warders with rapt attention and fascination. Kiam smiled secretively. It was well to remind the others that the ancient, white-haired woman in their midst was no ordinary Aes Sedai. Caraighan Maconar might aspire to be a legend, might well succeed in that regard… but Kiam Lopiang was of the Age of Legends itself. She supposed that made her something of a myth, like the Dragon. Like the Lightborn…

"It is another two day's ride to the mountains," Caraighan commented, once Kiam was secured in the saddle. The Warders, controlling their mettlesome warhorses with deft movements of the knees, clustered around them, awaiting orders.

"We shall find the Eye of the World beyond the mountains, to the east," Kiam stated.

Caraighan looked doubtful. "You are sure of this?" she queried.

Kiam gave her a particular look, an expression that contained every iota of her considerable experience, her powerful personality.

"Kiam Sedai," Caraighan added, belatedly.

Kiam nodded firmly. "North-east. That is where Kazandra told me to seek the fabled Eye and the Green Man who guards it," she revealed.

Caraighan frowned. "Kazandra Ilisar? The novice from Manetheren, the one who can Foretell?"

"She is Accepted now, she passed her tests recently, but yes, young Kazandra prophecies accurately. Not so well as dear old Deindre could, but competently enough to suit our purposes."

"And what _are_ our purposes, Kiam?" Caraighan demanded.

Kiam smiled mysteriously. "All shall be revealed in good time, Caraighan." She sighed. "Horses are so _slow._ If we but had access to a jumper, or better yet, a sho-wing, we could get there that much faster…" She patted Snowdrop between the ears, so that the graceful mare would not take offence at her disparaging comparison.

Caraighan was eyeing Kiam with some confusion. "What is a _sho-wing?_ "

Kiam smiled again.

* * *

 **Great Southern Continental airspace – 57 Post-Strike**

"You don't look well, Lightborn. Is something the matter?"

The Lightborn glanced up at Kiam Lopiang from where he sat, hunched in the flight-seat opposite, his legs drawn up, muscular arms wrapped about them, gloved hands gripping his knees tightly. He looked haggard. His face was rather pale, off-set by glowing cobalt eyes, the pupils narrowed to slits.

For a moment, it seemed that the Lightborn would not respond, but then he spoke, huskily. "I have never flown before," he admitted, then swallowed nervously.

"Oh, _I_ have!" Kiam replied airily, "why, there is nothing to it!"

The Lightborn scowled. "I _know_ that you have flown, Kiam Sedai," he growled, "you do it all the time… it is because you are a show-off!"

Kiam smirked, letting the insolence pass unchallenged, since the Lightborn was clearly not his usual good-humoured self.

The Lightborn stared out of the round window-port to his right, swallowing again. Dark clouds, lit by the full moon, were the only features that could be seen. The loud hum of the elderly motors all but drowned-out his subsequent remark. "It is my first time in a sho-wing," he revealed.

Kiam shrugged. "Well, there is a first time for everything," she commented evenly, then glanced around herself disparagingly, taking in the cramped passenger-compartment of the ancient sho. They were the sole occupants. "Though this crate barely qualifies for the title of sho-wing," she added, "all the best wings fell early during the Collapse, and were never replaced. It is my understanding that this sorry craft came from a museum…"

The Lightborn's strange eyes widened with alarm. "You didn't tell me _that_ , Kiam Sedai!" he accused.

"Did I not? Well… you mightn't have come with me, had I been more specific."

"Indeed I might not, Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai!"

"You _always_ use my full title when you are annoyed with me… how quaint!"

"Do not attempt to change the subject! I have not flown before, and have no wish to do so ever again!" The Lightborn thought about it for a moment, then sulkily added; " _particularly_ when I am flying within a museum exhibit…"

A strained silence reigned between them for a while, punctuated only by the all-encompassing noise of the antique sho-wing's labouring engines. Kiam leant back in her flight-seat, which was so old, it was actually upholstered in _leather!_ Imagine! Utilising the cured skin of a dead animal for such a purpose… how utterly barbaric!

The Lightborn swallowed yet again. Kiam reached beneath her seat and offered him a square paper bag. "If you are going to be sick, Lightborn, kindly do it in here," she requested. The Lightborn resumed his somewhat atavistic scowl. He did not take the bag. Kiam smiled crookedly. "Or are you perhaps preparing to cough-up a hairball ?" she enquired, innocently.

The Lightborn's scowl redoubled. "I am not!" he protested vehemently, "and you are a Servant of All, Kiam Sedai, you should behave less childishly! Clearly, you have a bad case of arrested development! Always with the sly jokes, the references to my-"

"Oh, _do_ shut-up, Lightborn!" Kiam interrupted, impatiently, "sulkiness does not become you. It is hardly my fault that you are so poor a traveller…"

The Lightborn seized upon this word with enthusiasm, momentarily forgetting his queasiness. " _Travelling!_ Exactly! Why could you not have simply Travelled to your surprise destination? This would have had the advantage of getting you there faster, and the greater advantage of my not having to be involved, since as you know, I cannot step through a Gateway."

"Really, Lightborn… where is your sense of adventure?" Kiam demanded.

"I left it behind… on the _ground_ ," the Lightborn responded, pointedly. He gulped. "Actually, I think I might need that bag after all," he mumbled.

Kiam passed the paper sick-bag to him. "Travelling is too dangerous these days, as you well know," she explained. "The few reports from the Southern Continent speak of earth-quakes and volcanic eruptions, land rifts and tidal shifts… I simply cannot risk it."

"You want to talk of risk?" hissed the Lightborn. He gestured out of the port with a gloved hand. "This thing is so old, it actually has _two_ wings to a side… tis a bi-plane!"

"A _what?_ "

"Something that Father once told me about."

Kiam frowned as she always did, at mention of the Defector.

"Do you think that this museum artefact will even make it to Larcheen?" the Lightborn added.

"I hope so." Kiam smiled coldly. "And besides-"

" _Hwulp!_ "

"Eww! That is _disgusting_ , Lightborn!"

"Sorry…"

"Well… at least you managed to get it in the bag. Most of it, anyway. And as I was saying before the revolting interruption, we are _not_ going to Larcheen, but to somewhere else."

"Guh… _where?_ "

"All in good time, Lightborn."

"Do you have to be so burning _mysterious_ , Kiam Sedai?" Kiam nodded definitively. The Lightborn considered for a moment. "Is our destination… the Dragon College?"

Kiam shook her head. "No. Not the _Collam Aman._ But you are close to the truth of the matter, Lightborn."

The Lightborn considered it some more. Then, his eyes widened again, his mouth dropping open, pointed teeth flashing as he uttered; "the secret facility! The Hill!"

Kiam laughed, amused but also a little annoyed. "Well done, Lightborn! Yes… we are going to go under the Hill."

The Lightborn evinced disapproval, concern also. "That place is _dangerous_ , extremely so; Uncle Gwili was never the same after he returned from there."

"Your so-called Uncle is an enormously irritating man, assuming that he is still alive. And it was his own foolishness that condemned Gwilimin Sedai to madness, not the aura of the Hill, nor even the Dark One's Taint."

"You just didn't like Uncle Gwili because he drunkenly tried to seduce you, Kiam Sedai," the Lightborn pointed-out, grinning. He was evidently feeling better.

Kiam eyed him coldly. "You know my tastes," she stated primly, "and he was hardly the first inebriated fool I have had to rebuff." She shrugged. "Though he was certainly the most _persistent_ ," she added, with a sigh.

" _Why_ are we going to Ghenjei Sedai's old laboratory?" the Lightborn demanded, "please explain to me the reason I have abandoned my duties on the Blight Border to accompany you on yet another foolish quest?"

Kiam opened her mouth to reply; to dissemble, to prevaricate, perhaps even to tell the truth, she was unsure… but the answer never came. Her dark, tilted eyes widened at the sight of something beyond the window-port. "Lightborn?"

"Yes, Kiam Sedai?"

"One of the engines appears to be aflame…"

The Lightborn examined the blazing wing and groaned. "I always wished to die in battle, like my Brothers," he stated regretfully, "not to be immolated aboard an antiquated death-trap above my birth-place… that is just absurd!"

"Never say die, Lightborn," Kiam snapped, unbuckling her harness and rising. She grabbed one of the Lightborn's hands as he too rose, dragging him up the aisle past empty seats, toward the cockpit. The door of which slammed open, revealing a young woman, clad in a dark flight-suit. Their Pilot. Her pale hair was cropped short in the Warman style, and her blue eyes held little in the way of fear at their predicament; such emotion had been excised from her quite thoroughly by the martial training that had begun at the age of ten.

"Aes Sedai! Gholam-Killer! We have a problem!" the Pilot shouted, above the noise of the doomed sho-wing.

"I can _see_ that, Pilot!" Kiam shouted back, "tell me; are we over land?"

"Yes, Kiam Sedai – the last fix put us one hundred and seventeen leagues due north of the Larcheen Aerodrome beacon, presuming that the Midnight City is still there…"

A hollow boom sounded from without the sho-wing and the craft tipped crazily to one side, plummeting toward the earth far below. Kiam staggered and the Lightborn grabbed her as a howling wind erupted around them. A powerful, gloved hand gripped an overhead rail, holding them both securely in place.

"I think the starboard engine just exploded!" the Lightborn bellowed.

" _Really?_ " Kiam responded loudly, then turned to question the Pilot further, but the young woman was no longer there. A gaping, jagged hole in the front of the cockpit through which a frigid zephyr gusted gave the only explanation as to her disappearance. _I never even knew her name_ , Kiam thought, sorrowfully. The youthful Warman Pilot had warned her that the salvaged sho-wing might not be up to the task of crossing the great Southern Ocean, but had not wavered in her determination to fly them there. And now, she was gone. And they would be joining her, or at least the Lightborn would. Heights held no fear for Kiam, of course. The same could not be said of the Lightborn, clearly. She couldn't carry him as well as herself, he was too heavy, it was not possible. Or was it?

"Come on, Lightborn!" Kiam shouted, tugging him over to the exit hatch, fighting against the vortex of air that threatened to sweep them off their feet. Smoke was beginning to fill the cabin… the end was nigh.

"What are you doing, Kiam Sedai?" the Lightborn demanded loudly, as Kiam wrenched at the emergency handle set into the heavy hatch.

" _Saving_ us… get ready to jump!"

" _Jump?_ "

The hatch swept open and they were sucked out into the night air, the blazing sho-wing falling away beneath them. Kiam had kept firm hold of the Lightborn's belt and, ignoring his shouted expletives, she embraced the Source through Vora's _sa'angreal_ and cast the complex webs that the lost Talent of Flight required.

Usually, Kiam could soar through the air effortlessly, but this time she had a heavy burden to bear. She had carried the Lightborn on a previous occasion, of course, when they had saved the Tamyrlin from assassination, but that had been many years ago, nearly a half-century… he had been younger in those days… lighter. In the intervening decades of the wars, the Lightborn had reached maturity, doubling and then tripling his weight as he added considerable muscle to his already dense skeleton. In short, his mass, added to her own, was too much for Kiam to cope with, even given the aid of the _sa'angreal_. And so, they fell.

Below, bright orange flames marked where the wreck of the sho-wing had crashed into the trees and the ground, blanketed with forest, swept up to meet them.

"Drop me!" the Lightborn shouted desperately, "save yourself!" The fatal distance beneath them was rapidly diminishing.

Kiam's response was to tighten her grip on his belt. " _Tsag!_ " she screamed, as she had as a girl, on the day her particular Talent had first awakened over the World Sea… she had not died then, and she would not die now. And neither would the Lightborn, she had brought him here, he was her responsibility… she would not allow him the satisfaction of losing his life at her behest!

But there seemed little hope of preserving themselves from death. It was only then that Kiam recalled her soldier's _angreal_ , a brooch in the shape of the white tooth, a representation of the female half of the symbol of the Aes Sedai. She had never been sure why she yet carried it about her person, since Vora's _sa'angreal_ greatly eclipsed it in Power. Nostalgia, perhaps, a reminder of her early days as a lowly Apprentice, before the unenviable duties of full Sisterhood were conferred upon her. The _angreal_ was in her belt-pouch, and uttering a silent prayer to the Creator, Kiam promptly drew _saidar_ through the brooch, adding the modicum of Power to the Flight webs that she was channeling. It proved to be just enough to slow their descent to a less terminal pace. The trees beneath still seemed to be sweeping up towards them, but now they did so less swiftly.

Kiam felt raw pain burning behind her eyes, she was over-channeling to a dangerous extent, much more of this and she would sever herself from the Source. Thirty feet above the forest, she could take it no more, and slowing to a near halt, she released her hold on the Lightborn. He disappeared into the darkness below, arms and legs flailing wildly. It was an amusing sight, she had to admit. A loud crash signalled his return to earth, but Kiam had her aching mind on other things. Free of her burden, the strain on her webs lessened considerably, but her power to fly was all but spent. Selecting a likely clearing, she dropped toward it, curtailing her descent at the last moment. The air was frigid and snow coated the ground; it was high summer in the north but of course, the seasons were reversed down here.

Kiam's booted feet settled delicately onto the pristine whiteness and _saidin_ slipped away from her, leaving her feeling bereft. She sank to her knees in the snow, clutching her head, which pounded fiercely. After a while, she looked up; dark, tilted eyes taking in her surroundings. Tall, unfamiliar tree trunks loomed on all sides, the silvery roundness of the moon above casting long shadows. Nothing moved in the forest, the wintry stillness was eerie.

"Lightborn?" Kiam called softly. No answer. " _Lightborn!_ "

Then, something stirred in the darkness beneath the trees, approaching. A low growl broke the silence, a bestial, disturbing sound.

"Is that you, Lightborn?" Kiam enquired cautiously. She couldn't channel a lick in her present over-strained condition, attempting to do so would almost certainly burn her out, possibly even kill her… but even so, she was not entirely defenceless. Kiam slipped a ceramic-bladed stiletto from its sheath in her boot and rose unsteadily.

A large, pale shape emerged from the shadows, moving stealthily forward. Some kind of predatory cat; white furred, long black claws sliding from the sheaths in its broad paws, which padded silently through the snow. Unblinking blue eyes stared at her. Kiam blinked; the beast did not. It was easily six feet long from nose to tail, her knife seemed totally inadequate when compared to its sharp teeth and sharper claws.

"Nice pussy…" Kiam whispered, venturing an ingratiating smile, "I am afraid that I don't have any milk to give you…"

In response, the great cat snarled, its feline face writhing, whiskers twitching… teeth bared, it crouched, preparing to pounce. Kiam tensed, drawing back the blade for a mortal thrust, knowing that it would probably be a wasted effort.

"Hoy!" shouted a husky voice, "cut that out, you!"

The cat turned its shaggy head, both it and Kiam staring as the Lightborn emerged from the trees. He looked bruised and dishevelled, leaves and twigs clinging to his _cadin'gai_ uniform. The Lightborn stood, swaying slightly, glaring at the large feline, cobalt eyes glowing in the low light. Then, to Kiam's surprise, instead of attacking, the big cat made a yowling sound and trotted over to the Lightborn. It sniffed his extended hand, then went up on its back legs, resting its front paws on his shoulders, and began to enthusiastically lick his face!

" _Eurgh!_ Get off!" the Lightborn protested, pushing it away. The cat circled him, then lay down at his feet, rolling onto its back. It was _purring!_

Kiam approached carefully, tucking the stiletto back into her boot. "Well, he certainly seems to like you, Lightborn," she observed.

The Lightborn was frowning slightly. "He is a _she_ ," he muttered, "I expect a male would have attacked me for trespassing on his territory…" he went down to one knee and rubbed the large feline's exposed belly, at which she took a playful swipe at him with a big paw. "They're solitary creatures," the Lightborn continued, "you don't usually see them this far north."

"Oh… what _is_ it?" Kiam wondered.

"Southern Wildcat. Also known as the Snowcat. They get bigger than this, our friend here is just an adolescent."

"She may be _your_ friend, Lightborn, but she certainly is not _mine_. Before your timely arrival, she was getting ready to _eat_ me!"

The Lightborn shook his head whilst blocking the swiping paws of the wildcat. "I doubt that. She'd have killed you most probably, but they don't like the taste of humans. They prefer deer, wild boar, rabbits… that sort of thing."

Kiam eyed the Lightborn speculatively. "How do you know all this?"

The Lightborn looked up at Kiam, his eyes, much akin to those of the wildcat, fixing her with a vaguely disturbing gaze that held dark knowledge, bitter experience, and something else, something entirely unknowable. Something that was beyond the range of human understanding. "How do you _think?_ "

Later, they watched as the wildcat rose and padded quietly back into the trees. It paused and gave the Lightborn a last fond stare, then disappeared into the night as soundlessly as it had arrived. The Lightborn sighed. "Sometimes, I dream that I am one of them," he said softly, speaking to himself as much as to Kiam. "I run on four legs, not two. I chase, and hunt, and kill…" The Lightborn's voice trailed off. Kiam patted him on the shoulder with commiseration, a rare display of empathy from her.

"Perhaps in another life, another time, you will live a simpler, freer existence, Lightborn," Kiam suggested.

"Indeed, Kiam Sedai," the Lightborn agreed, then shrugged and grinned, his mood changing with its customary rapidity. "Fate can be strange indeed!"

"Yes it can." Kiam shivered, her breath visibly gusting from her mouth as she spoke; "what happened to you anyway?" She brushed at the Lightborn's _cadin'gai_ , "you've got leaves and things all over you."

"I landed in a tree."

"Oh." Kiam shivered again. "But in the meantime, it would be good to get _indoors_. I do not know about you, Lightborn, but I am freezing…"

The Lightborn glanced at Kiam, then up at the sky, where heavy clouds were rolling in from the north, obscuring the moon. It was getting darker… and colder. "You are right, Kiam Sedai…"

"I usually am!"

"…we need to find shelter, it will begin to snow again soon."

" _Wonderful!_ "

"Oh, and thank you for saving me from the sho-wing, by the way."

"Well, thank you back for saving me from the wildcat, Lightborn. I suppose that makes us even."

"It does not. I have saved your life many more times than you have saved mine, Kiam Sedai. We are certainly _not_ even."

"Are too!"

"Are not!"

Before they had travelled a league in what the Lightborn assured Kiam was a southerly direction, a full-scale blizzard was under way. Kiam shivered violently as she waded through the heavy snow in the Lightborn's tracks; he was doing his best to shovel the drifts aside and make her passage easier, but it was hard going even so. If only she could fly!

"Why do you not just _fly_ , Kiam Sedai?" enquired the Lightborn over his shoulder, raising his voice above the howling wind that was pelting them liberally with ice crystals.

"I would if I could!" Kiam shouted back, "but I over-stretched myself carrying your hulking carcass to safety, you big lummox! I can't risk channeling for at least a dozen hours, and it's _your fault_ , Lightborn!"

The Lightborn blinked at Kiam slowly, then turned away, not quite in time to hide his smile. Kiam scowled, rubbing briskly at her arms, continuing to shudder from the cold as she waded through the mounded snow. How she regretted her coat, lost on the sho-wing with the rest of her luggage. The fancloth gown she wore was useful for going unseen, but offered little in the way of protection against the elements. Her elegant calf-boots were equally ill-suited for the terrain and conditions, and she supposed that they were letting in snow; she couldn't feel her toes anymore. This was not good, much more of this and hypothermia would set in, frostbite too… they would not survive the blizzard unless they found shelter, and soon. Well, _she_ would not, at least… the Lightborn did not seem in the least bit discommoded by the deadly weather conditions. Typical!

After another league, Kiam's breath was coming in loud gasps, her legs felt as though they were made of rubber, her pounding head was spinning… she needed to stop, to rest. "Lightborn," Kiam called, then closed her mouth and stood still, swaying slightly. The Lightborn walked on another few steps, kicking the piled snow out of the way, then paused, looking back at her curiously. "Lightborn…" Kiam said again, feeling nauseous, exhausted, the ache behind her eyes intensifying.

"Kiam Sedai? Is something wrong?"

"No…" Kiam mumbled, "it is just that… I think I am about to…" the howl of the wind seemed to lessen to a distant breeze, a strange warmth spreading throughout her body; "… _faint_." The snowy ground rose up to meet her and Kiam's last thought was that it would be good to lie down, just for a little while.

When Kiam came back to her senses, she found herself lying on her back on a hard, uneven rock surface. It was uncomfortable, but something made of cloth had been rolled-up and pillowed beneath her head, at least. A small camp-fire blazed nearby, damp wood crackling noisily. It gave little in the way of illumination, but enough that Kiam could discern that she was in a small cave. The rolled article her head was resting on appeared to be the Lightborn's fancloth poncho. She turned toward the flames, extending her chilled fingers to the warmth, moaning softly as the movement caused her head to pound more fiercely. Still, however rude the accommodations, at least she was out of the deadly blizzard.

Kiam could only assume that she had been carried here… a shadow fell over her. Kiam looked up. It was the Lightborn, indistinct in the flickering light of the small fire, stooping beneath the low roof, eyes glowing in the gloom. His arms were full of broken, split branches, which he dumped onto the floor of the cave. Kiam noted that he was not wearing his gloves. Perhaps he would lend them to her? That would be nice. Her fingers felt like icicles, while her toes were aching as life returned to them, which she took to be a good sign.

"Ah, you are awake, Kiam Sedai. Good. How do you feel?" The Lightborn's husky tones echoed oddly in the low-ceilinged cave.

Kiam opened her mouth to reply in the negative, then closed it. She sniffed; her nose wrinkled with distaste. A rank, animal odour was strongly evident. "What is that stench, Lightborn? Is it _you?_ "

"No!" the Lightborn protested, offended, then pointed a claw at the far corner of the cave. "It is the _bear._ "

Kiam turned and looked. The corpse of a large, brown-furred bear lay on the stone floor, parallel slashes in its flanks and neck and a large spreading pool of blood indicating that it had not died of natural causes.

"This cave was already occupied," the Lightborn explained, "and the bear would not willingly relinquish it, so I had to fight him for it."

Kiam felt vaguely guilty about this, but without shelter they might both have died, so not _that_ guilty… even so… "Would you please take the bear outside, Lightborn? I would rather not have to look at it… smell it, either…"

"But of course, Kiam Sedai." The Lightborn moved over to his kill. "That was to be my next task, after I had collected more firewood."

Kiam watched with interest as the Lightborn gripped the dead bear by its fore-paws and dragged it from the cave. The carcass must weigh over a thousand pounds, easily, but he handled it without apparent difficulty. Just how strong was he? Very. Extremely fast, too… and then, he stood immune to channeling. Kiam feared little in life, the War and the wars that followed had driven any such weakness from her, but she sometimes felt vaguely wary around the Lightborn. Nervous, even. She sincerely hoped that she never got on his wrong side. She had not seen him lose his temper very often, but she _had_ seen it… he was truly frightening when he was angry.

The Lightborn was gone for a while, and when he returned, there was blood on his chin, which he hastily wiped off when he saw that Kiam was staring at him.

"Have you been _eating_ the bear?" Kiam demanded.

"Only its liver," the Lightborn admitted, then shrugged. "I was _hungry_. It didn't taste very nice…"

"Huh." Kiam shivered a little. "Put some more wood on the fire, Lightborn. I'm still cold."

The Lightborn did as he was bid, then lay down on the other side of the small blaze. Kiam considered a moment, then crawled over to join him. The Lightborn's strange eyes widened as she curled against his chest, pressing close.

"What are you _doing_ , Kiam Sedai?" he gasped, scandalised.

"What do you _think_ I am doing? I am breaking the habits of a lifetime and attempting to seduce you!" Kiam snapped impatiently, then muttered; "we need to share body warmth, Lightborn. We'll freeze, otherwise. Well, _I_ will, anyway. I am not so sure about you, and quite frankly, I don't _care._ Now lie still, I need to sleep or I won't be able to channel tomorrow…" The Lightborn had tensed as Kiam touched him, now he relaxed slowly. "You are very warm," Kiam mumbled, drowsily.

" _You_ aren't," the Lightborn growled. "You feel like you're made out of ice, Kiam Sedai… something that I have long suspected of you!" Kiam jammed an elbow into the Lightborn's ribs and he sniggered. Then, his voice became serious; "tell me true, Aes Sedai; _why_ did we come here?"

Kiam smiled secretively. "To visit _Sindhol_ , of course." Then, sleep claimed her, a deep slumber; bereft of dreams and nightmares.

* * *

 **The Mountains of Dhoom – 331AB**

Kiam Lopiang stood upon a barren crag, gazing eastwards toward where the sun was gradually rising over a serried row of tall rock spires, though her eyes were unfocused and she was not really taking in her first glimpse of what was presumably the northernmost edge of the Aiel Waste. A small smile curved her lips as she recalled the Lightborn's embarrassment at having her snuggle close to him for warmth… she might also have kissed him in jest, as she had once before to teach him a lesson for his endless practical jokes. Near seven hundred years had passed since the Lightborn had disappeared from her life, but she still remembered him in colourful detail, when much else in her lengthy existence had faded into obscurity.

Kiam blinked and shook her head. More and more, she found herself entranced by the distant past, whilst the present seemed to mean less to her with each passing day. But here she stood in the Mountains of Dhoom, beyond the great pass known simply as 'The Gap' that led down into the borderlands of Aramaelle… this was not a good place to speculate on ancient history at the expense of watchfulness.

A soft footfall on rock behind her and Kiam tensed, but then composed herself… Raolin Gaidin would not have let anything approach that might be a threat. And it could not be her Warder himself for in that event she would have heard nothing, since Raolin moved as quietly as a cat at all times. The other Gaidin, despite their size, were almost equally stealthy, which left only…

"Hello, Caraighan." Kiam spoke without troubling to turn around. "Come to admire the view?"

Caraighan Maconar moved to stand beside Kiam, staring out at the wastelands that seemed to stretch on forever. "They call it the Three-fold Land," she muttered.

"Who do?"

"The Aiel. Apparently, they claim that the Waste was created in order to test them… and to punish them, also."

Kiam shrugged. "It used to be a great sea, you know."

Caraighan ignored this remark, eyeing Kiam curiously. "I heard a rumour, when I was a novice… it was said that the Aiel savages used to serve us, in the Age of Legends? That they were once the loyal servants of the Aes Sedai… surely that cannot be true?"

Kiam frowned. It was not something that she liked to even think about, let alone discuss. "It went deeper than that, Caraighan. There was a Covenant between us, but it was broken. As was much else. That, incidentally, is why those terrible times are known as 'the Breaking of the World.'"

Caraighan frowned also, dissatisfied with this response. "I see."

"You did not come here for the impressive vista, or to converse about the Aiel, Caraighan. Is something on your mind?"

"There is, Kiam." Caraighan hesitated, then demanded; "why do you seek the Eye of the World? You are old and frail, this unnecessary quest could kill you! You should be safely back at the White Tower… in fact, you should be Amyrlin! It is a great honour, and yet you refused the Seat! _Why?_ " Caraighan's mouth snapped shut and she did something that Kiam had never seen her do before. She blushed.

Kiam chuckled, then observed; "I seem to have opened the floodgates!"

"Forgive me, I meant no disrespect," Caraighan muttered, abashed.

"But of course you did not… you merely asked the questions that your Sisters have been too craven to seek answered themselves!" Kiam gazed back at the stark view for a moment, collecting herself. Then, she pinned Caraighan with a cold stare. "I am feeling generous so shall address your impertinent comments and queries in reverse order. Firstly; I rejected the role of Amyrlin Seat because I had no desire to spend my twilight years as a figurehead of the Hall and its many ambitious Sitters… and besides, I knew that Mabriam would do a far better job of it than I ever could. After all, she actually _likes_ politics. I do not. Secondly; despite what you patronisingly term my elderly frailty, or perhaps even because of it, I wish to embark upon one last venture into the unknown. And if I wish something, then I generally endeavour to make it happen." Caraighan was meeting Kiam's eyes, mouth slightly open as though she wanted to interrupt. Wisely, she did not. "Lastly; I do not seek the Eye as such, I seek _Someshta._ Or the Green Man, as you uneducated youngsters refer to him. I would speak with the last of the Nym a final time, pass on a message to an old friend, and then…" Kiam smiled gently; "…why, then my tale ends. It has been a long story, with a great many chapters, but everything comes to its inevitable conclusion, even Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai."

Caraighan was still staring at Kiam. "But..?" she spluttered.

"I have no intention of wasting away and expiring in my sick-bed… given the sort of life I have led, that would hardly be fitting. No, I shall journey to the realm of the last Nym, as Solinda, Deindre and the others did, long ago, when they sacrificed their lives for the future. It is only right that I too should go there to die."

Caraighan brooded on this for a moment, then whispered; "it seems selfish, somehow… the Tower _needs_ you, Kiam, you are our final link with the past, with the Age of Legends… and what of Raolin Gaidin? He will not long survive you."

"I shall release him from the Bond prior to my death. Perhaps you would take him on? If your own Warders do not object?"

"I shall ask them." Caraighan hesitated, then lifted her skirts slightly and performed a surprisingly graceful curtsy. "We may not particularly _like_ each other, but it has been an honour knowing you, Kiam Aes Sedai."

"Honour be damned, I am not dead yet!" Kiam snapped, testily.

Caraighan coloured and opened her mouth to doubtless say something objectionable, but then her greyish eyes widened with surprise and alarm as they focused on something behind Kiam. "There is an Aielman watching us!" she warned.

Kiam turned, and regarded the tall, red-headed man who was squatting easily atop a boulder some twenty yards away, deep green eyes staring at them unblinkingly. "So there is," Kiam commented, unconcerned.

Raolin Gaidin was at their side in an instant, blade drawn, and after a scant moment, Aldor and Baltus came running from the direction of the campsite, swords at the ready. They must have sensed Caraighan's reactions through the Bond that the three shared.

The Aielman did not seem to feel particularly threatened by the armed Warders, but called out to the two Sisters in high, clear tones; "I see you, travellers! Are you Aes Sedai? I think that you must be."

"We are!" Caraighan shouted back.

" _Da'shain_ ," Kiam whispered, "the People of the Dragon." Caraighan overheard, glanced at her curiously.

"May I approach?" the Aielman requested, his voice oddly accented.

"You may," Kiam responded. Caraighan frowned and Raolin shook his head slightly. Kiam could feel her young Warder's disapproval through the Bond. She ignored this, as she often did.

"He has no spears," Aldor Gaidin noted.

"Nor knife," added Baltus Gaidin.

The tall Aielman slipped down from his rocky perch and began to walk toward them with feral grace. He was indeed unarmed, and given that he was clad in the _cadin'sor_ , Kiam could almost imagine that he actually _was_ Dedicated… but for the deep, white scar that twisted his face, no true _Da'shain_ would ever have had such a mark of violence upon them. And there was nothing meek or pacifistic about the man, he moved with the assurance of a born warrior.

"How they have changed," Kiam murmured, sadly. Again, Caraighan gave her a questioning look.

In addition to weapons, the Aielman also lacked the black veil for which his people were famed. Ever since the Kingdom of Almoren had attempted to conquer the Aiel some two hundred years previously, their incursion into the Waste bloodily repulsed at the cost of several Legions, tales of these fierce warrior's supremacy in battle had abounded. No veil then, but oddly, a narrow black band was stretched about the Aielman's brow, framing his short, reddish hair. It rather reminded Kiam of the headband that the Lightborn always wore to cover his ears, about which he had been self-conscious...

At the Aielman's approach, Caraighan tensed and her Warders stepped in front of her, blades levelled. Raolin attempted to do likewise for his Aes Sedai, but Kiam put a restraining hand on his arm, stopping him. She took a step forward, feeling her Gaidin's concern and wariness through the Bond, but not heeding these sensations. The Aielman paused five paces away and bowed low to Kiam and Caraighan, a hand held out in a cupped gesture. The Warders, he ignored, as though they were not there, an unusual attitude for one faced with three Gaidin, weapons poised for killing.

"What is your name?" Kiam enquired.

The Aielman's eyes widened slightly as though he had not been expecting her to concern herself with such details, but he answered readily enough. "I am Jendin of the Wet Sands Sept of the Shaido Aiel," he declared, pridefully. He considered for a moment, then added, with a trace of regret; "or at least I _was_ … now I am Jendin of no place in particular!" He laughed softly, as though at some private joke.

Kiam and Caraighan exchanged wordless glances.

"May I know what you are called, Aes Sedai?" Jendin asked.

"Of course," Kiam responded, "I am Kiam Lopiang of the White Ajah, my companion is Caraighan Maconar of the Green."

Jendin blinked slowly as he considered this. "I know not what an 'ajah' may be," he commented, "but it would seem that they are of differing colours…" He glanced at the Gaidin. "And your Wardermen?"

"Aldor and Baltus," Caraighan replied shortly.

Jendin eyed the identical Gaidin drolly. "I can assume that they are related?" he jested, and laughed again.

Kiam frowned slightly. There was something not quite right about the Aielman… not his total absence of fear, that was only to be expected, but…

Jendin turned to Raolin. "And you, Brother of Battles?"

"I am Raolin-called-Darksbane, late of Aren Mador," the tall Warder responded levelly.

Jendin stared at Raolin for a long moment, unblinking. "There is something about you, Wetlander…" he muttered, as though speaking to himself, then shook his head. "No matter." He turned to Kiam. "May I ask of you a question, Aes Sedai?"

"You may," Kiam allowed.

"Which way is it to Shayol Ghul?"

Kiam and the others reacted with surprise and wariness to this unexpected query. There was _definitely_ something untoward about this lone Aielman…

Jendin continued speaking, unconcernedly; "I have heard that it is to the north, somewhere, but that is hardly specific. I must get there before it is too late…"

Kiam spoke carefully, as one does to those whose insanity makes them dangerous. "Jendin, why do you wish to go to… to _that_ place?"

Jendin answered her question in a casual way, as though speaking of the weather; "oh, it is because I mean to kill the Dark One. Shayol Ghul is Sightblinder's Hold, is it not? _That_ is where Shai'tan is to be found."

Silence greeted this explanation for a long moment. Kiam embraced the Source, and sensed that Caraighan was doing likewise. Clearly, they were dealing with a madman…

"How will you kill the Dark One without weapons?" Aldor asked.

"Where are your spears?" added Baltus.

Jendin shrugged. "I left them behind at Wet Sands," he explained, "I no longer have need of them. See?" He pointed at a large rock some fifty feet away, narrowing his eyes with concentration. Nothing happened for a heartbeat, then the rock abruptly exploded, splinters of stone flying in all directions.

Kiam hastily wove a shield around them to deflect the sharp missiles.

Jendin glanced at Kiam curiously. "Do you hold the Power, Aes Sedai?" he enquired, "I feel my skin crawling…"

" _Souvraniene!_ " Caraighan shouted warningly, preparing battle-weaves as her Warders moved in closer to better protect her. Raolin stepped smoothly in front of Kiam to provide the same service, his long, curved blade raised as he assumed the stance of Heron Wading in the Rushes.

Jendin eyed the Warders with a curious mixture of humour and disapproval. "There is no need for that, Wardermen," he protested, "do you not know that I would sooner pluck out my own eyes than harm Aes Sedai?!"

"I am sure that is so," observed Kiam, attempting to push Raolin out of the way, though the young Gaidin stood as immovable as Dragonmount itself. "But you are a male channeler, Jendin. It makes you a danger; to yourself and to others."

"Yes indeed," agreed Jendin equably, "you speak true, Aes Sedai. This is why my people sent me away. Amongst the Aiel, men cursed with the One Power always go north to kill the Dark One… it is the way of things."

"A harsh custom," Kiam commented, with a hint of commiseration.

"Ours is a harsh existence," Jendin pointed-out. "It has always been so, it will always be so… at least, until the _Car'a'carn_ comes to us and commands the Aiel in the Final Battle, spilling our blood like water…" He shrugged, then confided; "though He Who Comes with the Dawn should just lead the mighty Shaido to a glorious end, for the other clans, the fools who live to the south, are unworthy of the great honour of waking from the dream in _Tarmon Gai'don!_ "

"Who is this Chief of Chiefs that you speak of?" Kiam enquired, ignoring the evident concern of the others at being in close proximity to a possibly Tainted male channeler. Madmen held no fear for her, she had faced and defeated more of them than any Aes Sedai living.

"You do not know of the _Car'a'carn?_ " Jendin muttered, with apparent disbelief, "but long ago, the Prophecy of Rhuidean was foretold to we Aiel by Aes Sedai!"

Kiam thought of the four Sisters whom Elisane Tishar, the first Amyrlin, had sent to find what remained of the _Da'shain_. They had never returned. All had been able to Prophecy, it was why they had been selected for the task, presumably.

"Excuse me," Caraighan snapped, pointing a serpent-ringed finger north-west, "I hate to interrupt, but Shayol Ghul is _that_ way! The dread mountain of the Dark One lies beyond the peaks and the blasted lands. Good luck to you, Aielman!"

Jendin grinned savagely. "Should I encounter Leafblighter, I shall burn him with my fires and then eat his heart!" he boasted.

"Eurgh!" exclaimed Caraighan.

The cursed Aielman bowed again. "I thank you for the directions, Caraighan Maconar. It was good to talk with you, Kiam Lopiang. I must be on my way…"

Jendin then stared at Raolin again, something more than simple curiosity in his eyes. Raolin did not react to the strange look, but through the Bond, Kiam could sense that he was uncomfortable. Rare for him.

"Farewell, Sisters of the White Tower, Wardermen. We shall not meet again in the dream." Jendin glanced at Kiam. "Just one final question remains… it is said that we Aiel failed the Aes Sedai, in the Age of Legends, that we were sent to the Three-Fold Land as our deserved punishment. Should I succeed in my task of slaying the Dark One, will our transgression be forgiven? Our shame expiated?"

"But of course, Jendin," Kiam agreed, preparing a shield of Spirit should the channeling Aielman suddenly turn violent, or prove otherwise troublesome.

Jendin smiled, pleased. "This is good." Then, without further ado, the Aielman turned and strode away. Heading north-west, to Shayol Ghul.

"I rather doubt that we shall see _him_ again," Caraighan muttered.

Kiam frowned at her, then turned her dark, tilted gaze back to the doomed Aielman, his brown and grey _cadin'sor_ blending swiftly with the bleak surroundings as he merged with the barren scarp. "Jendin!" she called, impulsively.

Jendin paused, turning to regard the ancient Aes Sedai expectantly.

Kiam hesitated, then revealed; "I would have you to know that it was _not_ the _Da'shain_ Aiel who failed the Aes Sedai." Profound sorrow flickered briefly over her smooth, impassive features. "It was _we_ who failed _you_."

* * *

 **The Great Southern Continent – 57 Post-Strike**

"But why do you want us to go to _Sindhol_ of all places?" the Lightborn demanded, and not for the first time.

Kiam Lopiang declined to answer, she was too breathless to speak, even had she been so inclined. They trudged on through the snow in silence for a time, gradually cresting a long, low hill, lined with unfamiliar trees, icicles hanging from their boughs like strange and ethereal fruit.

"You do know that it is _dangerous_ there?" the Lightborn muttered, eventually.

Kiam smiled frostily, then sighed, her breath emerging in a pale cloud. It was very cold, but she ignored the chill with her usual detachment, though drew the bearskin further about her shoulders despite this. She hoped that the heavy article did not contain any fleas, but valued it even so. It had kept the beast warm, while it lived, and now performed the same office for her. In the morning, after an uncomfortable night in the cave, the Lightborn had thoughtfully skinned the unfortunate bear, scraping the inside of its pelt clean, and Kiam had been able to summon a trickle of _saidar_ to provide heat-webs for further curing its hairy hide. She shuddered to think what she must look like, swathed in this rude fur, but fortunately there were no other Sisters around to see and make snide comments, no-one but the Lightborn, though he was bad enough. He had naturally made tiresome jokes about her appearance for much of the morning, referring to her as 'She-bear Sedai' and 'Shaggy Servant' on several occasions, but his good-humour had gradually faded, given their destination.

"Dangerous!" the Lightborn repeated, ominously.

"I _know_ it is dangerous, do you think me stupid?" Kiam snapped, as they reached the top of the hill, pausing to rest and take-in the view. "Possibly the most dangerous place that there is, with the exception of Shayol Ghul…" Kiam paused to suck in several breaths of freezing air, then coughed. "I believe that I am contracting a cold," she mused, then fixed the Lightborn with an imperious gaze. "But in any event, we _must_ go to Sindhol."

"But _why?_ "

"There is someone there, held in captivity, a person of great import to the Pattern, and to the future also. We shall rescue her."

"Who?" the Lightborn inevitably wanted to know.

"Elisane Tishar."

"Elisane Sedai? Captive in Sindhol? What is _she_ doing there?"

"That is an excellent question, Lightborn, and I shall certainly ask it of Elisane when I see her."

" _If_ you see her. Why could you not just tell me this before?"

"Because much as I hate to admit it, I _need_ you, Lightborn, and you might not have come with me if you knew how hazardous our mission was. But now…" Kiam pointed, the winter sun flashing on the golden ouroboros ring decorating her pale hand, a recent fashion amongst female Aes Sedai, "…here we are."

The Lightborn gazed in the indicated direction. From the forest below loomed a dark, round hill, perfectly spherical, breaking the swathe of snow-laden trees. No natural hill, and no natural place. "So we are," the Lightborn said softly, and made a shuddering motion. "I hoped never to come here again. Once was enough!"

"But it is to there that we must go," Kiam responded smoothly, then started down the slope toward the forest, booted feet crunching through the snow, not looking back. She listened intently however, and when after a moment's delay, the sound of the Lightborn's steps could be heard following, Kiam smiled with satisfaction. She did not like to own to it, even to herself, but had been loath to come here alone. There were few thing in life, or death for that matter, that disturbed her, but the inhabitants of Sindhol were definitely numbered amongst them. The Aelfinn and the Eelfinn. The stuff of legend… and nightmares, also. In any event, she was glad that the Lightborn had accompanied her on her desperate mission, even if…

"You had best be careful within the forest, Kiam Sedai; some hunters might mistake you for a bear, and riddle you with shocklance bolts!"

"That is _most_ amusing, Lightborn. Most amusing indeed." _Even if_ he did have a lamentable sense of humour…

It was dark beneath the trees as they traversed an old, uneven pathway, obsidian slabs disturbed by encroaching tree roots, lined in many places with statues. Most of these sculpted figures had limbs and heads knocked off or were otherwise defaced, with vile words daubed in the Shadow-tongue scrawled across the plinths. The vandalism of Mesaana's Children, doubtless. Kiam ignored the statuary, but paused when the Lightborn did, gazing at a particular rendition of a reclining fox, a snake coiled about it.

"It looks like Father's work," the Lightborn commented, "this one is new, it was not here when I came before."

Kiam examined the statue, which was carved from gleaming elstone, somewhat pitted. The fox had a decidedly sinister cast to its vulpine features. So did the serpent, for that matter. "The Defector is notorious for his disturbing sculptures," Kiam muttered, disapprovingly.

The Lightborn glared at her, incensed. "Don't call him that! Latra Sedai told you not to… Father did not defect – he merely _escaped!_ "

Kiam sneered. "He may not be the Defector then, but he is certainly not your _Father_ either!"

"He _is!_ Well, perhaps not in the full sense of the word, but Father is the closest thing I will ever have to a parent…"

"I would not be so sure of that, Lightborn."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Oh… nothing."

They glared at each other awhile, then the Lightborn shrugged, asking; "why do you hate him so much, Kiam Sedai? Why do you despise Chaime Kufer Mors, Aes Sedai, so?"

 _Because he brought shame and disgrace to my family_ , Kiam answered silently, saying instead; "I will tell you, Lightborn, as a reward for your aid, when we return from Sindhol, our mission accomplished."

"Not when! _If!_ "

"We shall see."

Kiam turned and continued down the path, the Lightborn reluctantly following. Both maintained a somewhat sulky silence for a time, but the grim quietude of the gloomy forest soon became oppressive, and eventually the Lightborn spoke; "for what reason do you bring us all the way down here, Kiam Sedai? Why not utilise the Tower of Ghenjei to breach Sindhol, or one of the Doorways?"

Kiam eyed the Lightborn expressionlessly, then shrugged, the bearskin cape nearly slipping from her shoulders with the motion, before she caught it and restored it to its place. "The location of the Doorways was lost in the War. Oselle has been seeking them for some time, though I am not sure why. As for poor old Ghenjei's insane Tower, why, tis a trap for the unwary! Useless to my needs…"

The Lightborn's brow furrowed and he tripped upon an uneven paving slab, before recovering his balance with customary dexterity. "A trap, you say?" he enquired, "how so?"

"Are you completely lack-witted, Lightborn?! Once you go into the Tower, there is no way out!"

"Unless you have a Key."

" _Do_ you have a Key, Lightborn?"

"Well… no."

"And neither do I. Nor did Jethari Moondancer and Psubedai, but she took him into the Tower of Ghenjei regardless, acting against my advice, and the two of them were never seen again!"

"Psubedai and Jethari!" the Lightborn exclaimed, excitedly, "I did not know that you knew them!"

"There is a great deal that you do not know, Lightborn," Kiam observed, "enough to fill the _Can Breat!_ "

The Lightborn ignored Kiam's scorn, as he so often did, or perhaps he did not hear, since he was too busy enthusing; "Jethari Moondancer, the Peerless Archer! Psubedai of the Twin Blades! True Heroes of the Light… how I wish that I had met them also!"

"You might have been disappointed, Lightborn. Reality does not always do justice to the legend it spawned… Jethari was the most foul-mouthed, ill-mannered woman I have ever encountered, even worse than Azille Narof, and Psubedai was an ugly, morose introvert, who only seemed content when he was engaged in killing something. A more mismatched couple I have never seen."

"Well, love can be a strange thing, Kiam Sedai. And was it not for the sake of love that Jethari took her cherished Psubedai to Sindhol, that he might be healed of his wound by the Finn-folk?"

"I suppose… a terrible idea, neither the Eelfinn nor the Aelfinn go in much for healing… _hurting_ is more their style. Doubtless, Jethari's desperation was down to the fact that she knew she would likely never meet another man who could stand her obnoxious company!"

Kiam smirked. The Lightborn frowned.

"Tsk! You have no poetry in your soul, Kiam Sedai."

"And you have no soul in your poetry, Lightborn! I've read some of it, and it's _awful!_ " Kiam smiled triumphantly, pleased with her turn of phrase.

The Lightborn scowled, pupils slitting, but then his expression cleared and he grinned ruefully. "True enough! I ceased attempting tragic verse some time ago, for I do not have the facility for it. Though had I the time, I should like to try my hand at a symphony or two, Latra Sedai is always encouraging me to write music, but I _don't_ have the time." He resumed his scowl. "Because over and above my war-duties, my time is largely taken up with you and your damned intrigues, Kiam Sedai! I _really_ do not wish to be here, in this depressing place!"

Kiam chuckled. "Is that so? I should never have guessed…"

"Huh. So what happened to them?"

"Who?"

"Jethari Moondancer and Psubedai, of course! You said that they never emerged from the Tower of Ghenjei, Kiam Sedai?"

"Oh, doubtless they wandered the labyrinth of Sindhol, lost and disconsolate, until death took them."

"May the Hand of the Creator shelter them."

"Indeed. I know! Perhaps I should invent a tale of Jethari and Psubedai? I could say that they fell in glorious battle against the Snakes, or the Foxes…"

"Or both. They would appreciate that, Kiam Sedai, it is a good idea. I know that you like to make-up stories, you should do it." The Lightborn sighed, gustily. "We shall not see their like again…"

"Be not sad, Lightborn, tis said that Psubedai and Jethari Moondancer were both bound to the Horn of Valere. I dare say they'll be back, only with different names and faces, ere long."

"Presumably. So what is to stop us from sharing their dark fate?"

" _You_ , Lightborn!"

The Lightborn opened his mouth, sharp teeth flashing, to object, deny, repudiate, perhaps all three… but it was then that the path came to an abrupt end and they stepped through a crumbling marble archway into a great clearing, devoid of trees, dominated by the looming bulk of the Hill. The Lightborn closed his mouth, then opened it again. "Hob's Hill," he muttered, "I do not like it here."

"I have long wished to see it for myself," Kiam commented levelly, then eyed the Lightborn curiously. "You met Ghenjei Diss Salomon when last you were here?"

" _Saloman._ His third name was Saloman. And no, Ghenjei Sedai was long-gone when I came to this ill place with Uncle Gwili, he had Travelled north with his _Da'shain_ and Ogier artisans, to construct his Tower."

" _Uncle!_ " Kiam muttered, disparagingly, then mused; "yes, the fabled Tower of Ghenjei… from the heights of which, its maker threw himself to his death, in a fit of profound despair."

"A shame, that. But he was always a little odd, was Ghenjei Sedai. Brilliant, but decidedly strange. Some say it was the Taint that made him do it, but personally, I think it was his studies of the Finn-folk that drove him completely mad!"

"Probably. The denizens of Sindhol reportedly have an adverse effect on the minds of all who encounter them."

"And you want us to _go_ there!"

"We must, Lightborn. Deindre said so."

"Deindre Sedai? Not another bloody Prophecy!"

"The accurate term is 'Foretelling,' Lightborn. Elisane vanished some time ago. It would seem that she unwisely visited Sindhol, in her quest to find answers…"

"What answers? Elisane Sedai never mentioned any quests to me…"

Kiam glanced at the Lightborn, raising a delicate eyebrow. "I can only assume that you and she were otherwise occupied with differing matters… tell me, how long did your ill-fated relationship last?"

"A couple of moons, if you must know, Kiam Sedai." The Lightborn hesitated, then added; "of course, you are aware that she is _Ta'veren?_ "

"I have heard it rumoured…"

"Tis no rumour, but fact! Elisane Sedai used to ask me questions about myself, my Brothers, Father… things I have never told anyone, not even you, Kiam Sedai, but I told _her!_ I would try to prevaricate, change the subject, lie even… but to no avail! No-one is _that_ persuasive, but she was!"

"These question and answer sessions, did they perhaps take place in _bed?_ "

"Yes, as a matter of fact, usually after we had made love. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have had much the same experience with Elisane… in much the same location."

"Oh."

"Oh indeed. But you are entirely correct, Lightborn. The Dragon was _Ta'veren_ , and so is Elisane Tishar, seemingly. That is why delivering her from captivity is of such import. She has a prominent part to play in times yet to come, many turnings of the Wheel from now. A vital role, in quelling the chaos of the Breaking and restoring order to a troubled world."

The Lightborn nodded thoughtfully. "Well, that certainly sounds like something she might do. Elisane Sedai always was one for organising things… did Deindre Sedai tell you this?"

Kiam shook her head slowly. "Not in so many words, Lightborn, but with Deindre, one has to read between the lines."

"One certainly does!" the Lightborn agreed.

Whilst talking, Kiam and the Lightborn had been steadily approaching the enormous dome that rivalled a hill in its dimensions, pacing toward a semi-circular aperture, Ogier-high, that broke the smooth perfection of those curvilinear walls. A line in the stone bisected the arch down the middle, but there seemed to be no apparent means of access. They stood before the sealed entrance, silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Then, Kiam glanced expectantly at the Lightborn. He sighed.

"You really mean to do this, Kiam Sedai?"

"No! Having come all this way, risking our lives in the process, I have abruptly and perversely changed my mind! Let us turn around, return to the Northborder and speak of this no more, Lightborn!"

"You know, Kiam Sedai, sarcasm is the last refuge of the-"

"Oh, do shut-up! You are tiresome, Lightborn. The _Key-ter'angreal_ – I know you have it!"

The Lightborn frowned, but reached into one of the smaller pouches on his belt, producing a small crystalline sphere. He held it up. "Spirit, if you please..."

Kiam closed her dark, tilted eyes tightly, opening herself to _saidar_ with the ease of long practice, though at once felt her head begin to ache. It was a little soon for channeling, after her over-exertions of the previous day, but it had to be done. Besides, the pain was merely a dull throb compared with the burning sensation from earlier, when she had cast heat-webs to cure the bear's hide. She was recovering, which was well. She might need every iota of her Power for the ordeal ahead.

A thin flow of Spirit into the crystal Key- _ter'angreal_ gripped in the Lightborn's gloved hand; it flared brightly for a moment, engendering an answering flash of light from within the aperture. A loud rumble of stone on stone, and the two halves of the wall before them slid slowly apart, revealing a path into darkness.

Kiam rubbed briefly at her temples, then smiled brightly. "Come, Lightborn. Let us go under the Hill!"

It was pitch-black inside, and an unpleasant, musty odour hung in the still air. The Lightborn produced a miniature _sar_ -light and held it helpfully aloft, so that Kiam could make her way further into the dome without bumping into things. Ancient, cracked tiles crunched beneath their boots, a cavernous space extending all around them.

"The illuminations do not appear to be functioning," Kiam muttered, disliking the way her voice, though pitched low, echoed back from the high ceiling.

"There never were any illuminations," the Lightborn responded, "Uncle Gwili told me that Ghenjei Sedai _liked_ the darkness."

"But how could he _see_ anything?"

"Well, he couldn't anyway. Ghenjei Diss Saloman was _blind!_ "

"Really?"

"Yes, he damaged his eyes in an accident, no-one was quite sure how…"

"Could not a Restorer have mended his vision?"

"Most probably, but Ghenjei Sedai refused Healing. Uncle Gwili said he preferred being sightless, that it helped him concentrate upon his thoughts and theories, having the distractions of the world blotted out."

"An unusual man indeed. Gwilimin Sedai knew him well, I believe?"

"Oh yes. Uncle Gwili was his only Apprentice for some fifty years, at least until…" The Lightborn trailed-off. The cold, white glow of the _sar_ -light made his features seem washed-out, hard to read, but he looked uncomfortable, even so.

"Until his disappearance," Kiam whispered, completing the sentence.

The Lightborn shrugged. " _Gwili Beneath the Hill_ ," he whispered back.

"I am familiar with the story."

In an unsanctioned experiment, the Apprentice Gwilimin Leafwright ventured into the Doorway of the Eelfinn, then located at Hob's Hill, Ghenjei Sedai's clandestine research facility. He had not emerged at the appointed time, and as weeks became months with no sign of him, he was given up for dead. Use of the Doorways was proscribed, and both devices were sealed within a forgotten laboratory, where they gathered dust for a century. It was then, one-hundred years to the day, that Gwili finally emerged, much changed from the man who had entered the Doorway. He had never been the same since. Part of him had remained in Sindhol, lost forever… and part of Sindhol had come back with him, to the World of the Wheel. This singular event might have garnered more notice from the Aes Sedai, but by then the Collapse that preceded the War was fully underway and they had other things to occupy them. Terrible things. The Dark One's touch was upon the world, and the travails of a lone madman were of little consequence, beyond the creation of a myth that would later degenerate into a colourful story told to amuse children.

At the centre of the dome, a wide ramp spiralled into darkness. Kiam did not hesitate, but started down it, pausing when she realised that the Lightborn was not following. He stood above, irresolute, still holding the up _sar_ -light. He looked a little like some kind of bizarre statue, she considered.

"Well, Lightborn? Are you coming or not?"

"I'd really rather not, Kiam Sedai. Come, it is not too late… let us leave this unfortunate place and return to our responsibilities in the north. We do not even know if Elisane Sedai is captive in Sindhol, Deindre Sedai has been wrong before…"

"You are afraid to go further, Lightborn."

"Am not!"

"Fraidy-cat!"

The Lightborn frowned, blinking his strange, glowing eyes slowly, then muttering angrily to himself, he started down the ramp, pushing past Kiam and leading the way into the dark. "I cannot let you go alone, Kiam Sedai," he growled.

"Whyever not?"

"Because you are Aes Sedai, of course. My sworn duty is to serve and protect you…"

"To protect me from _what?_ "

"From _yourself_ , mostly!"

Kiam laughed softly. "You never cease to surprise me, Lightborn. Service until death, eh?"

"It may well come to that."

"Be not so gloomy. There are worse places to go than Sindhol, after all."

"Precious few. And you are only saying that because you have never been there, Kiam Sedai." The Lightborn halted his progress down the ramp and turned, fixing Kiam with a disturbing, unwinking gaze, his pupils narrowing to slits, his habitually good-humoured features become unaccustomedly grim. "Well, I _have_."

The spiralling ramp descended deep into the earth, emerging into a massive, circular chamber, walled and floored with _cuendillar_ slabs. Storage-chests and various large _ter'angreal_ lined the curving circumference, a tall, crystalline column stood to one side, an ornate elstone chair to the other, but Kiam's attention was fixed on the artefact that occupied the centre; a shining array of long silver rods, forming a three-sided pyramid. That which they had come here to utilise. The Dimension Gate.

The Lightborn ignored it, going instead to the crystal column. He rapped upon it with his knuckles. "Hoy, Seneschal!" he called, "are you there?"

Immediately, the tall column began to glow, ethereal light blooming from within, swirling colours resolving themselves into a shape.

"Who is Seneschal?" Kiam enquired, going over to join him. The Lightborn pointed wordlessly at the coalescing form, which swiftly assumed the aspect of a slender, ageless man, clad in a long white robe which left his right shoulder bare. His skull was hairless, his skin dark, a small smile twitching the thin lips of his cadaverous face. His eyes were unblinking, and shone with a strange, golden light. He floated within the crystal column, regarding them intently.

" _He_ is Seneschal," explained the Lightborn, softly.

The apparition that had appeared inside the column, a device that Kiam could only assume was some sort of special _ter'angreal_ , inclined his bald head, hands clasped together before him. The voice with which he addressed them was utterly devoid of intonation, and seemed to somehow come from all around the chamber.

"Greetings, War-Construct Tro. It is well to see you again."

"You too. But I have a different name now, Seneschal." A hint of pride tinged the Lightborn's words; "I am called _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_."

Seneschal nodded sagely. "A fine title. You have grown, it seems, in more ways than one." The apparition turned to Kiam. "Might I be addressing Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai?"

Kiam blinked. "You might," she allowed, then added suspiciously; "how do you know who I am? We have never met… I should certainly have remembered it!"

Seneschal replied placidly; "I had full access to the Hall of Servant's records, prior to its razing in the War."

"They rebuilt it," the Lightborn muttered.

"That is good to know. From the surviving information, I extrapolate that there is an eighty-three percent probability that you are Kiam Sedai. You were listed as an Apprentice, but I see that you currently wear the Ring."

"Oh…" Kiam responded, then demanded; "what _are_ you? I have never seen anything like you before!"

The Lightborn provided an answer; "Seneschal is a Construct of sorts, not biological like me, more mechanical. Jorlen Corbesan designed him. He is unique."

Seneschal nodded affirmatively. "Indeed I am." He directed a vaguely quizzical glance at the Lightborn. "How is Jorlen Sedai? Well, I hope?"

The Lightborn hesitated, a look of confusion passing over his features, then answered; "not really. He died when the Sharom was destroyed."

An artificial flash of regret appeared briefly on Seneschal's thin face. "Oh dear. They never told me. And my old Master, Ghenjei Sedai? Did he successfully construct his experimental Tower?"

The Lightborn nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. And he is dead too."

"How sad." Seneschal shook his hairless head slowly back and forth. "Mortality is such a finite concept." He turned back to Kiam, gold eyes examining her with interest. "You possess the rare Talent of Flight, I believe?" he enquired.

Kiam nodded impatiently. "Yes, but don't ask me for a demonstration, I am somewhat overstretched at the moment."

Seneschal squinted at her. "That is certainly the case, your aura has a reddish tinge to it… perhaps I might be of assistance, in that regard?"

Before Kiam could respond, a beam of bright golden light was projected from the top of the crystalline column, enveloping her. A warm, glowing sensation infused her body and she felt the residual ache behind her eyes abruptly fade. The light vanished with the same immediacy with which it had appeared. "What did you do to me?" Kiam demanded.

Seneschal shrugged his bony shoulders, an oddly human gesture. "Attempt to channel," he suggested.

Kiam scowled, but let the bearskin slip from her and cautiously embraced the Source. _Saidar_ filled her and her boots rose from the heartstone slabs as she used the Power to fuel her distinctive Talent. She hovered in the still air above the Lightborn and the crystal column that contained Seneschal, not experiencing any discomfort, exulting in no longer being grounded.

"That is amazing!" Kiam exclaimed, "however did you do that, Seneschal?"

"A simple realignment of synapses," Seneschal answered modestly, "as well as one or two other adjustments that are somewhat more complex."

Kiam let her feet settle to the floor and released _saidar_ with reluctance. "What is your purpose, Seneschal?" she enquired, "why were you made?"

"Oh, to advise and assist," Seneschal answered, "Ghenjei Sedai was good enough to utilise my aid with his simpler experiments. A fine scientist, we conversed often about a variety of subjects, most illuminating. How is he, by the way? Did he successfully build his Tower?"

Kiam and the Lightborn exchanged a wordless glance. The Lightborn answered, his tone careful; "we just told you, Seneschal, a moment ago. Ghenjei Sedai is no more…"

"That is most unfortunate!"

"And I believe that you must have been informed of Jorlen Corbesan's demise a long time ago, but you did not seem to recall that either…"

"Worrying! Please wait briefly, I shall perform an internal diagnostic." Seneschal's image vanished amidst a swirl of roiling colours, before returning an instant later. He was now frowning slightly. "It would seem that some of my memory circuitry has degraded, particularly with regard to short-term mnemonics. How provoking! I shall require repair."

The Lightborn shook his head sadly, whilst Kiam watched in silence. "I am sorry, Seneschal, but there are none alive today capable of such endeavours. Too much knowledge was lost in the War, and in the turmoil of the years since."

Seneschal made a sighing sound, which echoed all around them. "That is disappointing," he commented, then his image flickered, the illumination within the crystal column fading a little. "Hmm. It would seem that my internal power source is failing. It has been some time since I was last activated, there may have been an overload." Seneschal's golden-eyed gaze fixed upon them, and though his atonal voice was unable to hold a note of urgency, he yet spoke faster; "quickly, in the time that I have left, how may I assist you? It is what I was made for, after all… command me!"

Kiam wasted no time in doing so. "Open the Gate, Seneschal!"

"Certainly. Destination?"

"Sindhol!"

Seneschal looked perturbed, as the light within the column faded further. "That is a proscribed place, Kiam Sedai. Are you sure?"

"Yes! Do it!"

Seneschal closed his glowing, gold eyes, then opened them again. Immediately, the metallic rods of the pyramid structure in the centre of the chamber began to shine, a glowing nimbus swelling within. "It is done." Seneschal's voice was quieter now, his image slowly dimming as the energy within the crystal column drained away. "Might I direct your attention to the storage-chest located beside the calibration- _ter'angreal_ to my left?" he added, "the contents may be of use, given your ill-advised choice of inter-dimensional ingress…" Seneschal had almost completely disappeared by this point, only a dim vestige of light remaining within the column.

"Goodbye, Seneschal," said the Lightborn sadly, watching as the image of the ancient Construct died.

"Farewell Tro, Apprentice Lopiang… I wish you good fortune with your venture…" Only Seneschal's head remained, floating within the crystalline column, becoming increasingly transparent, his toneless voice reduced to a mere whisper as he spoke his last words; "oh, and should you encounter Ghenjei Sedai on your travels, do please give him my best regards." The column became still. Seneschal was gone.

When the Lightborn spoke, breaking the melancholic silence, he sounded bitter. "All the old technology and knowledge is lost. Will it ever return to us?"

Kiam shrugged. "It may, Lightborn, if Elisane Tishar has anything to do with it." She turned toward the Gate. "Come. We have work to do." Kiam smiled a glittering, feral smile. " _Our_ sort of work…"

"Wait." The Lightborn went over to the storage-chest that Seneschal had indicated and threw the lid open. "Ah…" he breathed. Curious, Kiam joined him in examining the contents of the chest. Phosphorescent firesticks. A selection of hand-blades, forged of wrought iron. And…

The Lightborn held up a long, wooden pipe with a bulbous end. He put it to his lips and blew a rising scale, fingers dancing nimbly over the stop holes lining its length. He lowered the pipe and blinked. "Interesting choice," he commented.

Kiam smirked, and chanted; " _courage to strengthen, fire to blind_ …"

"… _music to dazzle, iron to bind!_ " finished the Lightborn.

They exchanged a long and meaningful glance.

"Well, if we're going to do this, we'd best get on with it," the Lightborn eventually suggested, without much in the way of enthusiasm.

"Assuredly," Kiam agreed, then nodded at the chest. "Lightborn, be so good as to pass me a couple of those knives, would you?"

* * *

 **The Northern Blight – 331AB**

Beyond the Mountains of Dhoom, the Blight resumed, but it appeared to be less prevalent as they travelled further east in search of the Eye of the World, with occasional patches of untainted vegetation. Kiam Lopiang took this to be a good sign. She sat her mare with the easy familiarity of a more than competent rider, letting Snowdrop step gracefully along behind Raolin's warhorse without recourse to reins. She was wondering, as she often had… what exactly had Seneschal _been?_ No-one back at Paaran Disen, even the Lore Ajah Sisters in the Great Library of the Servants, had ever heard of such a Construct, an artificial being that could communicate with and advise its human masters. Truly, Jorlen Corbesan had been a genius, an overused term in her estimation, but one that certainly applied to him. Kiam wished that she had met the man, seen the further wonders he might have created, had he not perished in the cataclysm that opened the Bore, long before her birth.

Mierin's fault, she who later became Lanfear, Daughter of the Night. A vile woman; she should have been strangled at birth! How many lives had been destroyed because of her boundless ambition, her all-encompassing evil? The Lightborn always claimed to have met Lanfear once, in _Tel'aran'rhiod_. Another of his tall tales, perhaps. Perhaps not. From dwelling upon one Construct, to the recollection of another… though _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ had been a biological creation containing animal genes in addition to human. And of course, there were the Nym, the fabled botanical Constructs, the pride of their mysterious makers at the Collam Avende. But the Tree College and its Masters had been destroyed in the War, as had all of the Nym. All but one, though he had been badly injured. Someshta. The Green Man. And she was going to see him… Kiam wondered if he would remember her? It had been a long time since their last meeting, after all, though the Nym did not reckon the passage of years in the same way that humans did. Something to do with being practically immortal, doubtless.

Raolin Gaidin turned in the saddle and glanced back at his Aes Sedai. Ensuring that she was still there, Kiam presumed. She smiled fondly at the young Warder and was rewarded with a rare return smile, a slight twitching of the lips, before Raolin resumed his watchful gaze on the forest around them, through which they moved cautiously.

Caraighan rode ahead of Raolin, with Baltus Gaidin leading the way. Aldor Gaidin was rearguard, riding just behind Kiam. Such precautions were necessary… since leaving the mountains they had twice been attacked; on the first occasion by a pack of what might have been dogs or wolves, but for their tentacles, and the second time by a walking tree, of all things! The monstrous arboreal creature had sought to strangle them with its whipping branches, which were lined with deadly thorns that wept poison. Caraighan had discouraged it by burning off some of its slimy bark with weaves of Fire, but even so, the tree-monstrosity had sought to pursue them, plodding slowly along their trail on its root-like feet for some distance before eventually giving up the persistent chase. Raolin had told Kiam that he had encountered one of these abominations before, whilst scouting the Blight north of Jaramide, that they subsisted on a diet of blood. Horrid!

Even so, the journey had gone easier than Kiam had anticipated, and they had encountered no actual Shadowspawn, as yet. She had overheard Aldor and Baltus suspiciously discussing the paucity of dangers, it seemed that they had never known the Blight to be so quiet. Kiam could only hope that this did not presage some sort of calm before the storm…

Abruptly, Snowdrop came to a halt because Raolin's stallion, Killer, had done likewise. The whole party had stopped for some reason. Kiam craned her neck but could not see what was going on up front. She considered using her particular and unique Talent to float upwards to a better vantage point, but decided not to. Caraighan would think that she was showing-off and besides, it tended to startle the horses when she flew. Heeling Snowdrop forward, Kiam passed Raolin, who promptly fell-in behind her, moving to the front of their small column. Caraighan gave Kiam a cold stare as she rode by… clearly, the dratted girl was still sulking about the morning's argument.

In recent days, Caraighan had become increasingly insistent regarding their quest, the end of which did not seem to be in sight. Provisions were running low, and one could hardly live off the land in the Blight. Things had come to a head as they were preparing to depart their campsite at sunrise, Kiam angrily pointing out to Caraighan that since the realm of the Green Man and the Eye of the World that it guarded never appeared in the same place twice, it was impossible to determine how long it would take to find it. _If_ they did. Kiam allowed that she might have fanned the flames of dissention by adding a few choice epithets concerning the poor quality of the younger generation of Aes Sedai, their lamentable lack of manners and respect, and how such behaviour would not have been tolerated in _her_ day… well, she supposed that she just did not much care for Caraighan Maconar. This was partly due to the junior Sister being from Aridhol, whose denizens had a well-deserved reputation for deceit and ruthlessness. Mainly, though, it was because Caraighan was so arrogant. But then, in all fairness, arrogance was something that Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai, had been accused of in her time, also. By the Lightborn, to name but one.

Putting these considerations aside, Kiam directed a sweet and somewhat goading smile at Caraighan as she trotted past, reining Snowdrop in beside Baltus, who was sitting his warhorse and staring silently at something ahead.

"What is the delay, Baltus Gaidin?" Kiam enquired.

The big Warder pointed. "Look, Kiam Aes Sedai… butterflies!"

There were indeed numerous brightly-coloured, gossamer-winged insects flitting about amongst the trees ahead… trees, Kiam noted, that looked far more verdant and healthy than any they had hitherto encountered in the Blight. Trees, furthermore, that were not chasing them, attempting to kill them and drink their blood… certainly, an improvement on the situation!

Caraighan heeled her dun mare forward also, stopping on the other side of Baltus. "Butterflies," she repeated, tonelessly.

"They're not going to attack us, are they?" Kiam wondered, only half in jest.

Raolin responded from right behind her; "no, Mistress, those are just ordinary bugs, not creatures of the Blight."

"That certainly does not look like the Blight, up ahead," Caraighan observed.

"That is because it is _not_ the Blight," Kiam replied crisply, without troubling to look at the Green Sister, "it is the abode of Someshta. You will be pleased to hear, dear Caraighan, that we have finally reached our destination. The realm of the Green Man awaits us."

"Indeed it does, Aes Sedai!" boomed a deep voice. Part of the forest before them moved, resolving itself into a great, man-like presence that strode forward to greet them. The Green Man. Taller than an Ogier by the same magnitude that a Treebrother loomed over a human, the towering, ancient Nym was entirely composed of a combination of leaves, vines and the long grasses which constituted his hair, falling to his broad shoulders. His simple garb was fashioned of living tree-bark. Everything about him expressed the verdure of thriving nature – but for a withered wound in his head, a brown scar that marred the vivid green of his features.

"Hello Someshta," Kiam called out, slipping down from her mare and stepping forward to meet their host. The others stayed in the saddle, gaping at a figure out of myth, a legend come to life, even Caraighan, whose air of studied indifference to most things seemed to have entirely abandoned her.

"Long has it been since I heard my use-name," the Green Man commented in his basso tones, "the humans call me by a new title, now."

"Well, whatever your present nomenclature, it is good to see you again, Someshta," Kiam commented, gazing up at the giant Nym with satisfaction.

"Again? Have we met before, Aes Sedai?" The Green Man's verdant face expressed puzzlement.

"My name is Kiam Lopiang," explained Kiam, "don't you remember me?"

"Human names are so _short_ ," the Green Man observed, "they can hardly be said to be names at all…" he touched the line of dead vegetation that marked his skull, adding apologetically; "since I took the wound, there is much I do not recall…"

Kiam sighed. Someshta's injury, the massacre of the other Nym… again, Lanfear's doing. She had heard that even some of the other Forsaken had disapproved of her actions in _that_ instance. Strangled at birth? The wicked bitch should never have been _conceived_ in the first place!

The Green Man's expression cleared as a flash of memory came to him. "Hold! Might you be the Aes Sedai who can _fly?_ "

Instead of answering verbally, Kiam embraced the Source and rose gracefully into the air until she could look Someshta directly in his hazel eyes. The Green Man grinned with delight.

"You are! _Now_ I remember you!" The Nym frowned, leafy brows drawing downwards. "You look different. Your hair has changed to the colour of snow."

"Time takes its toll on humankind, even we Aes Sedai are not immune to its passage." Kiam glanced back; the others had dismounted and were approaching.

"You were a friend of Blackthorn, were you not?" the Green Man enquired.

"Blackthorn?"

"Forgive me, you would not know, that was the name I gave to my fellow Construct, the Thirdborn."

"Oh, the _Lightborn_ … well, I suppose that we were friends… sort of… not in the early days of our association, certainly, but after a few decades had passed, we were perhaps on better terms." Even after all these years, Kiam was still not sure.

Behind Kiam, Caraighan coughed pointedly. Kiam lowered herself gracefully to the ground and made partial introductions. "Someshta, this is my Warder, Raolin, and his fellow Gaidin, the brothers Aldor and Baltus." The Warders all bowed low to the Green Man, who hesitated, then bowed awkwardly back. Kiam smiled at Caraighan, and did not speak further.

Caraighan scowled at Kiam, then addressed the Green Man; "I am Caraighan Maconar, of the Battle Ajah. It is a great honour to meet you, Ancient One."

"The honour is mine," the Green Man demurred, "it is long since I had the pleasure of a visit by an Aes Sedai… and now, two come at once!" His expression became more serious. "I believe that I know why you are here. This way…" With that, the Green Man strode away into the trees, a swarm of iridescent butterflies swirling in his wake. They had to hurry to keep up with the Nym's long strides, at least until he noticed and thoughtfully slowed his pace.

They walked in no particular hurry, leading the horses, travelling through the most beauteous woodland that Kiam had ever beheld. It made even a _stedding_ of the Ogier look like the Aiel Waste! The arcane influence of Someshta upon his exquisite forest realm seemed all-pervasive. Along the way, the Green Man gathered delicate flowers here and there, skilfully weaving them into garlands which he presented to the two women. Kiam accepted her gift with aplomb, despite not much caring for such blooms, but to her amusement, Caraighan blushed and stammered confused words of gratitude on receiving hers. Kiam noted that while the ring of blossoms adorning Caraighan's brow was multicoloured, her own garland was made up entirely of white flowers; lilies, apple-blossom, honeysuckle, wood-anemones and of course, her mare's namesake, snowdrops.

White was not only the hue of Kiam's Ajah, but her favourite colour also. When she used to play the hopelessly inept Lightborn at _tcheran_ , she had always selected the white pieces… did Someshta know of her preference? The last Nym and the last Lightborn had been close, had engaged in long discussions on many an occasion; had she ever been mentioned? More likely it was just coincidence… but dear old Vora had always maintained that there was no such thing as coincidence, that all events carried their own significance.

At one point, the Green Man paused beside a bent birch sapling that was growing at an odd angle. He muttered something to himself in a strange tongue, reminiscent of the convoluted speech of the Ogier. Kiam did not see exactly what he did, but when the Green Man continued on his way, the sapling was now in an upright position, from which it could grow tall and straight. A short time later, they arrived at a large glade bordered by particularly fine trees, all huge and ancient, the open space surrounding an abbreviated hill. A high, white archway was set into the side of the grassy mound, the symbol of the Aes Sedai carved into the central stone.

The Green Man halted and gestured at the dark opening. "The Eye of the World lies within." Without further comment, he turned and walked back into the forest. Kiam glanced at Raolin. He was staring at the arch, seemingly fixated.

Kiam turned to Caraighan, preparing herself to give and receive harsh words. "I thank you for your assistance in reaching Someshta's realm, Caraighan. You and your Warders are now free to return to Tar Valon."

Caraighan stared at Kiam for a moment, her grim expression incongruous in combination with the fecund, colourful garland that yet decorated her brow. "So that is it, Kiam?" she hissed, "we were just to accompany you here, ensure your safety within the Blight and now that we are no longer needed, you dismiss us like… like…"

"Servants?" Kiam prompted, "well, that _is_ what we are, Caraighan. Servants of All. You would do well to remember that." She turned to the Gaidin twins, who were watching, open-mouthed. They knew better than to get involved in a dispute between Sisters of the White Tower, as they had also not intervened that morning, during the argument. "My thanks for your loyal service, Aldor and Baltus," Kiam stated, turning from one to the other.

The Warder brothers exchanged a nervous glance. Aldor hesitated, then muttered; "actually, Kiam Aes Sedai, _I_ am Baltus…"

"…and I, Aldor," explained the other, whom she had thought was Baltus.

"You have been calling us by the wrong names all along," the identical Gaidin explained, simultaneously.

"My apologies," Kiam murmured.

"That is quite alright…"

"…it happens all the time."

The pair of matched Warders mounted their warhorses and waited for their Aes Sedai to do likewise. Caraighan seemed in no hurry to do so, lowering her voice so that her Gaidin would not hear her words. Raolin was not attending, his attention still on the archway in the hill.

"So you mean to stay here, Kiam?" Caraighan demanded.

"I do."

"And what of your Warder? Aldor and Baltus would not object to Raolin joining our Bond. Neither would I."

Kiam shook her head curtly. "I have thought on that, and decided against such a course. Raolin's destiny takes him down a different path, one that does not involve sword-service to you, Caraighan."

" _Another_ Prophecy?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

Caraighan sneered. "You are secretive, Kiam. You always have been. Before she left this life, Karella Aes Sedai told me that there is much about you that remains hidden."

Kiam shrugged. "Well, dear Karella always was something of an open book. She would be bound to find me a different story. You may go."

" _May I?_ "

"You have my leave to depart this place."

Caraighan snorted contemptuously. "And people think that _I_ am arrogant?" She turned towards her mare, paused, and turned back. "It seems that we shall not meet again in this life, Kiam, and I for one am glad of it."

Kiam did not choose to respond, but allowed Caraighan the last word. It was the least that she could do. It was not to be, however…

"You are still out here?" boomed a voice. The Green Man had remerged from the trees. "I left this place to give you privacy, for I thought that you would wish to view the Eye of the World alone…" he pointed a large, verdant finger at the arch set into the side of the hill. "Perhaps I was not specific enough? The Eye is _in there_ …"

Kiam nodded patiently. "Yes, Someshta, we understand." She eyed Caraighan pointedly; "but we were first saying our farewells. Caraighan and her Warders are _just leaving_ …"

Caraighan glared at Kiam, then glanced at the Green Man, her expression softening. She took the garland from her hair, hesitated a moment, then embraced the Source and wove a Keeping upon it. Taking her green-fringed shawl from her saddlebags, she carefully began to wrap the woven blossoms in it. "I shall keep this gift for as long as I live," Caraighan mumbled, without looking up at the towering Nym, "in remembrance of our meeting, Green Man." Tucking the silken parcel back into her saddlebags, Caraighan mounted and rode away without another word, her Warders hastening after her.

Kiam and Someshta watched as they vanished into the trees. "A strange girl, Caraighan," Kiam commented, "a curious mixture of practicality and sentimentality."

" _All_ humans seem strange to me," the Green Man rumbled. He glanced down at Kiam. "Forgive me, Kiam Sedai, I meant no offence!"

"None taken, Someshta. Besides, after near eight-hundred years of existence, I do not feel particularly _human_ anymore." Kiam's eyes were still fixed on the forest into which Caraighan and her Warders had ridden, a hint of regret in her gaze. Caraighan would have an eventful future, she expected. She would certainly be remembered long after Kiam Lopiang was forgotten. But that was as it should be. Caraighan was the future of the Sisterhood, she its past.

"I shall take my leave of you once more, Kiam Sedai," the Green Man muttered. He glanced at the hill, looking troubled. "I do not care for this place, though I was set to guard it. I have never quite understood, but my end is somehow tied to it. The Eye of the World is my duty… but also, my doom."

"Did Deindre tell you this?" Kiam asked.

"Why, yes… did you know Deindre Sedai?"

Kiam nodded. "Deindre, Solinda, Oselle and the others, young Kodam and his followers… I knew them all."

" _That_ was a terrible day. There is much of the past that is lost to me, but I will never forget the creation of the Eye."

"What happened?" Kiam knew what had transpired, she had heard it from Elisane Tishar many years before, who had heard it from the Green Man also, but she wanted to hear Someshta's own version of events for herself.

The Green Man spoke of ancient happenings in deep, sonorous tones, that seemed to suit the tragedy of the events. "It was in the final days, when the world was first being broken… there were one-hundred of them, male and female Aes Sedai, working together, their strength combined, as it had been in the Age of Legends. They performed a mighty task, a grand working of the Power; producing a wellspring of untainted _saidin_ for the preservation of the future… and it killed them. All of them." Someshta gazed at Kiam with great sadness. "There was not one amongst the Brothers or Sisters who did not know that the act of purifying _saidin_ would end their lives, but they did it anyway. A noble sacrifice. Why, they were brave as _Da'shain!_ "

Kiam did not respond. What could she possibly say to Someshta under the circumstances?

The Green Man gestured at the tall trees that lined the glade. "I interred the bodies of the Aes Sedai beneath the roots of these… I sang Tree Songs for them all."

"That was very good of you, Someshta. And it is an example of supreme faith to we of the White Tower that you have remained here to watch over the Eye of the World for such a great span of years."

The Green Man nodded firmly. "And I shall continue to do so for as long as is needed. It is not what I was made for, but Solinda Sedai asked it of me, and I could not refuse her."

"There were few that could," Kiam commented.

"I shall await you out here," the Green Man stated.

"I thank you, Someshta. There is a boon that I would ask of you presently, but I promise that it shall not be an onerous duty."

The Green Man nodded again and strode away, toward a huge, spreading oak that stood apart from the other trees. He sat beneath it, closing his hazel eyes, seeming to lose himself in an intense reverie. Kiam watched him for a moment, curious. Truly, the Nym were strange and unknowable beings. But when it came to loyalty and dedication, humans could certainly learn a thing or two from them…

With a sigh, Kiam turned away. Her true task yet awaited her, the primary reason that she had come here. Raolin, called-Darksbane. The young Warder was still staring at the archway in the hill, fascinated.

"Raolin?" He blinked, shook his head, glanced at Kiam.

"Mistress? Forgiveness, but there is something in there that _calls_ to me…"

Kiam smiled sadly. "It is _saidin_ , Raolin. A great lake of the purest _saidin_ , the male half of the True Source, the One Power that turns the Wheel of Time. And it calls to you because you can _channel_."

* * *

 **Sindhol – 57 Post-Strike**

A roaring, rushing noise, as though every cataract and mountain torrent in existence had converged to crush the senses in a cacophony of strident sound. A brighter than belief flash of light that seared the soul, as if the sun had exploded into fiery oblivion. Then, Kiam Lopiang completed her journey, stepped through to the opposite side of the Dimensional Gate. To somewhere other than the World of the Wheel, to a place that should not exist, yet did. She staggered a little on the uneven ground; a solicitous gloved hand caught her arm, steadying her. She looked up at the Lightborn, who though not tall, still loomed over her diminutive form.

"Did you hear that?" Kiam gasped, " _see_ that?"

"Oh yes," the Lightborn answered, and grinned. "Quite something, is it not? They say it is less disconcerting if you go through one of the Doorways… I would not know, though, because I never have."

Kiam glanced over her shoulder. The shining Gate stood behind them, wreathed in a greenish, ill-smelling mist. Was it the same Gate that they had walked through back at Hob's Hill, somehow existing in two places at once? Or were there _two_ Gates… or possibly, even more? The Gate led to other dimensions also, did it not? An infinity of worlds, possible and impossible, each with its own Gate…

The pyramid structure was yet glowing, still supporting the same nimbus of eldritch light into which they had ventured, Kiam was relieved to note. So presumably, the way back stood open. "Where is this?" Kiam asked, scanning her surroundings beyond the point of ingress. A gloomy landscape stretched out to all sides, flat and indistinct in the foggy atmosphere. Strange-looking trees were clustered about, spongy alien vegetation with fan-shaped leaves. It was quite dark, there seemed to be no sun in the colourless sky above, and no stars either, for that matter. She could not tell if it was day or night… perhaps neither state existed here?

"Sindhol," the Lightborn answered, with a shrug. He sniffed, pulled a disgusted face, then pointed. "The Halls of the Finn-Folk lie that way."

Kiam glanced in the indicated direction. It did not seem to be any different from the rest of the drab scenery, but she assumed that the Lightborn knew what he was talking about… at least, she _hoped_ that he did. Then, the import of his words struck her. "You mean that we are _outside?_ Without the abode of the Aelfinn and Eelfinn?"

"It is not exactly an abode, more a place where they conduct their sordid business, I believe… but yes, for want of a better word, the Gate lies beyond their immediate realm."

"Isn't that rather dangerous?"

"Define dangerous, Kiam Sedai. This is _Sindhol_ , after all. But it was Ghenjei Sedai's idea to situate the Gate out here, so that he could come and go without being observed. That was the plan, at least. By all accounts, it didn't really work, though."

"The best laid plans of mice and men are oft to-"

"Please do not mention _mice_ , Kiam Sedai. I don't much care for them…"

Kiam smirked. "Karella tells me that you oft have bad dreams about fearsome rodents!"

The Lightborn glared at her. "That isn't true! At least, I don't believe so… I do not really remember my dreams, to be honest…"

"That is probably just as well, Lightborn."

"Yes… well, we can stand here discussing esoteric topics a while longer, or we can go inside. Did I perhaps explain that there are things that live out here?"

" _Things?_ What sort of things, Lightborn?"

"Things that are far worse than _mice_ , Kiam Sedai!"

They set off, the Lightborn leading the way, Kiam hefting the satchel full of firesticks and following with alacrity. She did not really believe the Lightborn's warning about the denizens of this strange and disturbing landscape, he was doubtless attempting to alarm her… but then, on several occasions, she imagined that she caught movement in the corner of her eye, shapes skulking through the mist to either side. She tightened her grip on Vora's _sa'angreal_ each time, but said nothing to the Lightborn about it. He did not seem to notice, just tramped through the indistinct terrain, occasionally sniffing the foetid air, sometimes adjusting their course a little, sometimes not. He seemed to know where he was going, at least, for which Kiam was glad. She suspected that without the Lightborn's services as a guide, she would have swiftly become hopelessly lost. She could not help but wonder, however…

"Lightborn, what transpired on the last occasion that you came here?"

For a moment, Kiam thought that he had not heard, or would not answer, but then the Lightborn growled; "I would rather not talk about it, Kiam Sedai."

"You are a mysterious creature, Lightborn. Enigmatic. I suspect that you shall take your multitudinous secrets with you to the grave."

"Actually, I thought I might include them in my memoirs… and would you please be quiet, Kiam Sedai? Those _things_ that I mentioned – they _hear_ very well!"

Kiam closed her mouth, and scowled darkly. She had never liked it when the Lightborn got the last word. And she presumed that he was being customarily flippant concerning his talk of memoirs, but if he ever did write anything even vaguely autobiographical, he had better not describe _her_ in an unfavourable light! She was not above litigation, if need be!

An immense arrangement of dull silver, three-pointed spires loomed out of the mist ahead, a demented crag formulated in the mind of an insane architect. Kiam gasped.

"Impressive, isn't it?" the Lightborn muttered. He did not sound particularly impressed, more fatalistic.

The triple-peaked mountain grew in stature as they walked steadily toward it, seeming to rival Dragonmount in size, if not height. At its base yawned a great, rounded portal, toward which the Lightborn led Kiam. Her feet faltered a little.

"We are to go in there?" Kiam whispered.

The Lightborn glanced at her unreadably, then nodded.

They approached the mouth of the aperture cautiously. A whitish mist issued from within, though it seemed more akin to steam, and Kiam fancied that she could glimpse indistinct faces forming and reforming within the vapour, mouths gaping wide to laugh or scream… perhaps both? The air was hot and clammy, and carried a musky, animal scent. Kiam was grateful that she had not eaten anything recently, but felt her gorge rise even so.

The Lightborn stopped at the entrance, glancing around. He seemed to be waiting for something. Kiam moved to join him, a substance like damp sand crunching beneath her boots. She glanced at the Lightborn interrogatively. His demeanour seemed… expectant. Kiam opened her mouth to enquire as to their next move, but then…

" _A short time_."

The voice that spoke was breathy and harshly accented. It issued from the oddest-looking person that Kiam had ever beheld, even odder than the Lightborn… and like her companion, it clearly was not human. Inhuman. The speaker approached them from within the portal, wreathed in shadows so that at first, Kiam could only tell that it was very tall, moving with a sinuous gait, its elongated form wrapped in yellow cloth, feet bare. As the dim light fell on its features, Kiam noted that the face was a little too long, the body too slender. Any residual doubts about its lack of humanity were dispelled by the eyes, however; the mysterious speaker had black slits for pupils, which along with the scintillating, scaly quality of its skin and dark hair, gave it the aspect of a serpent.

" _Aelfinn_ ," Kiam whispered, wonderingly. She was not sure if the creature heard, but it glanced at her briefly, before returning its attention to the Lightborn.

"A short time…" the Aelfinn repeated in its whispery voice, "a brief span since last you were here, Stranger."

"That is true, Snake," the Lightborn agreed, levelly.

The Aelfinn frowned slightly, then looked back at Kiam. "Aes Sedai," it hissed, "you bring her to us as a gift?" There was undoubted eagerness in its tone, and Kiam shuddered slightly.

The Lightborn shook his head firmly, scowling, his pupils slitting to a narrowness almost equal to that of the Aelfinn's. "No, Kiam Sedai is certainly no gift and besides, _she_ brought _me_." He squinted at the Aelfinn whilst reaching into the breast of his _cadin'gai_. "Are you the same one as last time?" the Lightborn asked, "I cannot tell, you Snakes all look alike to me."

The Aelfinn declined to answer, but smiled a thin smile. It did not appear to have many teeth, just two serpentine fangs in place of canines. Kiam found herself wondering if it might be poisonous? The Aelfinn's disturbing gaze remained fixed on her. Its mouth fell open as it inhaled deeply, and a writhing motion began in its narrow shoulders, continuing down the long, lean body. This unnerving regard and reaction made Kiam feel distinctly uncomfortable, not to mention nervous, and she touched one of the blades tucked through her belt.

The Aelfinn noticed and its reptilian eyes widened as it stared at the weapon. " _Iron!_ " it snarled, then turned to the Lightborn accusingly; "implements of cold iron! You break the ancient Agreement, Stranger! _Again!_ "

The Lightborn grinned savagely. "Wrong, Snake! We didn't come through your Doorway, so the Agreement doesn't apply!"

"You are unmannerly!" the Aelfinn spat, "have you also devices of fire? Instruments of music?"

"Yes and yes!" the Lightborn responded, pulling the wooden pipe from his coat. He raised it to his lips.

The Aelfinn hissed angrily, raising long hands to its elongated ears, but too late – the Lightborn began to play. It was an exotic melody that wound in and out of the central theme, one that Kiam had not heard before. Her knowledge of music was limited, but she thought that it might be an eastern composition. The effect on the Aelfinn was marked; the creature's hands fell to its sides, face blank, eyes half-close, and it began to sway from side to side, sinuously. The Lightborn moved the pipe back and forth as he played, mimicking the Aelfinn's movements, or perhaps controlling them. After a while, he ceased playing; the Aelfinn stopped its swaying and stood still, lengthy arms dangling limply at its sides, features slack. Its slitted pupils stared straight ahead, at nothing in particular. The Lightborn approached the Aelfinn and waved a gloved hand in front of its face, eliciting no response.

"What have you done to it?" Kiam wondered.

The Lightborn glanced at her and smiled sardonically. "Music! To them, it is a form of hypnosis. Try it with the Foxes and they tend to fall asleep, but the Snakes are different. Musical instruments make them oddly compliant." The Lightborn turned back to the dazed Aelfinn; "can you hear me, Serpent?"

"Yes, I can hear you," the Aelfinn replied breathily, voice devoid of emotion.

"I want you to take me to the Aes Sedai."

The Aelfinn promptly pointed a distended, scaly finger at Kiam. "She is there."

" _Not_ Kiam Sedai, you reptilian idiot! The _other_ Aes Sedai, I mean! The one you vile Snakes hold captive. Where is she?"

"She is in the Chamber of Reckonings."

"And where is that?" Kiam demanded, excitedly.

"She is ours," the Aelfinn muttered, in hollow tones, "she broke the Agreement. She asked _four_ questions!"

"Where is the Chamber of Reckonings?" Kiam repeated, but the Aelfinn did not answer this time.

"It won't tell you," the Lightborn explained, "it can't, in fact. This bizarre place is too mutable for actual _directions_." He turned back to the Aelfinn. "I want you to take us to this Chamber where the Aes Sedai is imprisoned… and none of your damned tricks, or I'll make a belt out of your scaly hide!"

Kiam would never forget their subsequent journey through the labyrinthine Halls of Sindhol, though when she recalled it later, could not be sure how long it had lasted, what exact path they had taken, any of the actual details. It was all very confusing. It was, she suspected, intended to be so. But what possible design could incorporate the insane architecture that defied the comforting familiarity of the straight line, that presented the same view over and over, though through round windows occupying differing sides of the seemingly endless hallway down which they travelled? Bronze ornamentation adorned the ceilings here and there, tiles decorated with spiralling patterns were set into the floor.

Kiam's first glimpse of the triple-spires from within the hallway had been deeply disturbing… she stopped and gazed out of the window at the distinctive landmark. Her mouth fell open. The Lightborn paused also, but their suborned Aelfinn guide continued walking for a few steps, until told to stop.

"But… we're _in_ the spires, aren't we?" Kiam whispered, "how can they be over there?"

The Lightborn shrugged, glanced at the Aelfinn, then raised the pipe and played a few more bars of the melody, to keep the creature in its trance-like state.

"They must be _different_ spires," Kiam stated decisively.

The Lightborn shook his head. "No, the same. There is but one set of spires."

"And we are _in_ them?"

"Um… yes and no."

"You shall have to do better than _that_ , Lightborn!"

"How can I explain something that I do not fully understand myself, Kiam Sedai? Ask Uncle Gwili, if we ever see him again. He knows more about this place than anyone alive. Only Ghenjei Sedai knew more." Kiam scowled, opened her mouth to argue further, but was forestalled…

"Ghenjei," the Aelfinn muttered, breathy voice slurred as though half-asleep, "I recall the Aes Sedai, Ghenjei… we foretold his death, and other events besides, but he refused to accept the truth of fate… the inescapability of destiny… we fed well on his disappointment, his regret… and the Eelfinn gifted him thrice, as is their wont, then took his sight in recompense."

Kiam shivered. The Lightborn reacted angrily; "shut-up, you! Keep your nasty anecdotes to yourself! Take us to this Chamber of Reckonings… lead us there right now!"

After a moment, their Aelfinn guide shuffled forward, down the endless curving corridor, Kiam and the Lightborn following cautiously. Eventually, the tedium of the curving hallway with its round windows was broken by the appearance of an oval portal set in the wall ahead. They approached carefully. The Aelfinn stayed where it was, swaying slightly. A strange noise was coming from the chamber; a soft, hissing susurration. Kiam glanced back to ask the Aelfinn what it was, but the creature was gone. She tugged on the Lightborn's arm and pointed wordlessly, to indicate that their guide had abruptly vanished; he merely shrugged in response.

"They do that," the Lightborn whispered, "come and go at will. Disquieting, is it not?" He grinned. Kiam scowled.

Warily, they crept up to the wide portal, peering around the edge to look into what was presumably the Chamber of Reckonings. Kiam stared. A dozen Aelfinn sat cross-legged on a crimson and cream tiled floor in a large, domed room. They were arranged in a circle; tall, lean forms wrapped in red cloth. With a start, Kiam realised that some of them were female, their elongated features more delicately formed than those of the males. Her attention was largely focused on something else, though.

Elisane Tishar, Aes Sedai, floated above the tiles in the centre of the circle of Aelfinn. She was wreathed in steaming white mist, unclothed, her long blonde locks haloed about her head. Her fine face held an expression of profound dismay, her eyes tightly closed. A trail of tears marred her cheeks and she trembled convulsively, as though in the grip of a fever. The Aelfinn stared up at her with their slitted pupils, fixated upon their prey, making soft hissing sounds of what could only be enjoyment.

"Poor Elisane!" Kiam whispered, "what in the Wheel are they _doing_ to her?"

The Lightborn scowled, his own pupils as slitted as those of the Aelfinn. "Filthy Snakes!" he growled softly, "this is what they do for pleasure! They are making her relive terrible experiences, and feasting upon the resulting sensations…"

"We must save her!" Kiam urged, "quick, play your pipe…"

The Lightborn reached into his coat once more, then blinked, looking puzzled. "It was there a moment ago," he muttered.

"Are you looking for _this_ , Stranger?" hissed a breathy voice from behind them. They whirled around. A score of Aelfinn clad in yellow cloth filled the hallway. They were smiling, their serpent-teeth flashing. They gripped curved, bronze swords; all but the one who had spoken. It waved the wooden pipe that it held tauntingly, then broke the instrument in half across its bony knee, dropping the pieces to the tiles. "Did you think it would be so easy?" the Aelfinn enquired.

Kiam and the Lightborn glanced at each other, she with consternation, he with a distinct coldness that she had come to recognise in him, prior to acts of extreme violence. He was _angry._

"No," answered the Lightborn softly, taking a stalking step toward the Aelfinn, "not particularly easy…" A blur of movement and the lead Aelfinn howled, clutching at its thin face. An iron-bladed knife was embedded in the ruins of the left eye. Dark, inhuman blood spurted from the wound, promptly turning to a substance akin to pale smoke. "Though not so difficult either," the Lightborn added, tearing off his gloves and unsheathing his black, razor-sharp claws. "Firesticks!" he shouted at Kiam, then leapt upon the Aelfinn.

Kiam automatically reached into the satchel slung over her shoulder, fingers closing around the smooth length of a phosphor tube, but her eyes remained fixed on the ensuing mayhem. The Aelfinn moved with sinuous grace and plied their bronze blades skilfully, with serpentine speed, but against the Lightborn they stood little chance. They might be otherworldly beings with arcane powers, but he was a War Construct, his genesis the product of a brilliant if deranged mind, the creation of an Age where the impossible had been made reality. And he had been born for battle.

Kiam watched as the Lightborn tore the Aelfinn apart, avoiding their attacks with contemptuous ease, his clawed hands moving almost too fast to see. Again, a smoking substance rose from the great amount of gore being shed, seeming to contain more of the strange faces she had glimpsed earlier. The wounds inflicted were real enough, and incapacitated the hapless Aelfinn as well as the iron knife had. Kiam turned away from the carnage. The red-garbed Aelfinn within the Chamber had ceased their odious meal at the expense of Elisane, and had risen from their circle. They approached Kiam in a loose group, stepping sinuously, unhurried. She steeled herself, and walked into the Chamber of Reckonings to meet them.

"You disturb our repast," hissed one, a tall, male Aelfinn.

"You do not abide by the ancient Agreement!" accused a female Aelfinn.

"Indeed I do not," responded Kiam, raising the metallic length of the firestick.

"What is that?" demanded another Aelfinn.

"You shall see!" Kiam promised. Remembering to shield her eyes from the light, Kiam depressed the switch set into the handle. The firestick ignited, a fierce phosphorescent flame blazing from the tip. The Aelfinn confronting her hissed with dismay, lifting long hands to cover their slitted pupils and backing away from the terrible white light. Brandishing the firestick threateningly, Kiam advanced on them; the Aelfinn fell back. "Elisane!" Kiam shouted.

Elisane Tishar's eyes snapped open, blue orbs blurred with unshed tears that focused blearily on Kiam. "Is that you, Kiam?" she mumbled, her voice slurred.

"Yes, of course! Who else?"

Elisane shook her head, gradually regaining her faculties, moving her limbs weakly, but yet remained hanging within the white mist. "Free me!" she implored.

One of the Aelfinn lunged toward Kiam, attempting to pluck the firestick from her hand, but she shoved the flaming tube into its face; it howled with anguish and retreated. "Back!" Kiam screamed, attempting to force the Aelfinn away from their captive prize. With her free hand, she yanked Vora's _sa'angreal_ from her belt, levelling it at the Aelfinn.

"Don't channel!" Elisane shrieked, "I tried it and they just drained the _saidar_ … it only served to make them stronger!"

" _Tsag!_ " Kiam cursed. Abruptly, the firestick fizzled out, the flame at the end sputtering and dying. Kiam swiftly reached for another, but with reptilian speed a female Aelfinn leapt forward and tore the satchel from her shoulder. Kiam plucked an iron blade from its sheath and slashed at her enemy, but the Aelfinn was too swift for her, falling back to the others with its spoils, an expression of cruel triumph on that inhuman face. The other Aelfinn smiled also, advancing on Kiam threateningly.

"We had one Aes Sedai," a male Aelfinn observed in his sinister voice.

"Now we have two!" added a female Aelfinn with evident satisfaction.

"So you can _count_ … how clever of you!" Kiam snarled, waving the knife warningly at the approaching Aelfinn. If the creatures were impressed by her bravado, they gave no sign.

"Drop the hateful iron weapon," suggested the tallest Aelfinn, something compelling in its serpent's gaze, "you have no need for it, we shall not harm you."

"We only wish to feed," hissed the female Aelfinn whose skill at numeracy Kiam had derided, slipping ahead of the others.

"Feed on this, Serpent!" Kiam shouted, dashing forward and stabbing the Aelfinn in the breast. The creature screamed, falling to the tiles, thrashing. Unfortunately, it took the blade with it, lodged in the wound, blood gushing forth to transmute into more of the pale smoke. Kiam reached for another knife but it was too late, the rest of the Aelfinn fell upon her and she was borne to the floor by a multitude of long, sinewy limbs that held unnatural strength. Her vision was filled with malevolent, elongated faces, slitted pupils staring, sharp incisors bared; so Kiam shut her eyes and ceased her impotent struggles. Too bad it had to end like this. She wondered vaguely what ill recollections her captors would provoke in her, so that they might satiate themselves with sensation? She had a head full of bad memories, after all, mostly from the War…

Then, Kiam heard Elisane cry out, a note of surprise in her voice; "N'aethan! You are here also?"

"That I am, Elisane Sedai," the Lightborn replied.

"Quickly, help Kiam – she is over there, under all of those Aelfinn…"

"Yes, I can see her legs sticking out. One moment…"

Kiam kept her eyes shut for the next part. Wet, slicing sounds punctuated by harsh screeches, mostly, though the crunching of breaking bones featured a fair bit as well. When it was all over, Kiam opened her eyes and accepted the clawed hand offered to her as the Lightborn helped her to her feet. She tried to ignore the torn and broken corpses that littered the tiles all around, with little success.

"It is almost as much fun as slaying Shadowfilth!" the Lightborn reported, cheerfully, "though a deal less satisfying…"

"I thank you for your assistance, Lightborn," Kiam murmured.

"Pray do not mention it, Kiam Sedai."

"But how were you able to harm the Snakes with your claws? They are not made of iron… are they?"

"In a way, they are… the claws leach off the iron in my blood, part of Father's Design, so that-"

"Excuse me?" They turned. Elisane Tishar was regarding them with the level, blue-eyed gaze that she was noted for, a regard that managed to be commanding and compassionate at the same time. Kiam had always wondered how she did that, it was something of a mystery amongst the Sisterhood. "Sorry to interrupt, but if it is not too much trouble, would you two mind freeing me?" Elisane continued, sweetly; "I can only assume that this is why you are here?"

The Lightborn blushed and hurried over to the captive, floating Aes Sedai. "Of course, Elisane Sedai, please excuse the delay…" He extended an experimental hand toward the white mist in which the helpless Elisane hung suspended, then jerked it back hastily. "Ouch! It is _hot!_ "

Kiam joined him, embraced the Source and rose to float opposite Elisane. "Patience, Elly, I'm going to try something," she muttered.

"I can be patient," Elisane responded, agreeably. Indeed, she was known for it. She folded her hands before her and waited calmly. Kiam could not help but admire her old friend and occasional pillow-companion. Even hanging naked in an inhuman larder within burning mist, she had regained her composure with ease!

Concentrating, Kiam extended webs of Air and Spirit around Elisane and with a wrench, drew her forth from captivity. Elisane slid into her arms and, holding her friend in a close embrace, Kiam lowered them both to the floor. Elisane clung to her, there seemingly being little strength in her legs, and kissed Kiam exuberantly.

"Thank you, Kiki," Elisane whispered, then glanced over her shoulder at the Lightborn, who was watching approvingly. "It is good to see you, N'aethan," she stated softly, "especially since we parted on such bad terms… I am sorry I threw the dish at you."

The Lightborn grinned. "It was a bowl, not a dish, Elisane Sedai, and it is quite alright… you missed by a mile!"

Elisane smiled back at the Lightborn. "You were a swiftly moving target, I recall…"

"Hadn't we better get out of here before more Aelfinn show up?" Kiam reminded them both frostily.

"Yes, certainly," Elisane agreed, still leaning on Kiam, then eyed the Lightborn again, fondly. "N'aethan, do you think that you could find me some _clothes?_ I am not sure what the Snakes did with mine. And not those rags the Aelfinn dress in, if you please, I don't think I could bear to wear something of theirs."

"Of course, Elisane Sedai." The Lightborn glanced around fruitlessly, thought about it, then unbuckled his shattercloth coat and took it off. The shimmering blue tattoo on his bare chest scintillated in the low light. He passed the coat to Elisane and she promptly slipped into it, fastening it up. It came down to mid-thigh, providing her with some semblance of modesty.

"My thanks, N'aethan," Elisane murmured, "I shall return your _cadin'gai_ when I find something more appropriate to wear…"

The Lightborn nodded. Kiam noted that he had not taken the opportunity to direct a salacious gaze at Elisane's undeniably attractive nudity, but then the two of them had doubtless seen more than enough of each other in the past… and judging by Elisane's approving glances at the Lightborn's impressive physique, in the future also!

"Can you walk, Elisane?" Kiam enquired.

Elisane Tishar released her hold on Kiam, taking an experimental step, but her legs gave way and she began to fall. The Lightborn was at her side in an instant, catching and supporting her. "I think not," Elisane mumbled.

"I will carry you, Elisane Sedai," offered the Lightborn, scooping the debilitated Aes Sedai into his powerful arms. Elisane smiled up at him gratefully.

Kiam sighed ruefully. It had been _her_ idea to rescue Elisane… well, prompted by Deindre, at least… but as usual, the damned Lightborn was the Hero of the hour while she was relegated to… what? The bearer of the firesticks? That reminded her… the purloined satchel lay a few yards away, the cold hand of a dismembered Aelfinn still gripping the strap. Kiam went to retrieve it, raising her fancloth skirts so that they would not brush against the corpses that she had to step over. She lifted the satchel full of firesticks, slinging it back over her shoulder. They might well need them again… she turned in time to see the Lightborn pacing toward the oval egress from the Chamber of Reckonings, his precious burden cradled carefully in his arms.

"Hey! Wait for me!" Kiam hurried after them. The hallway outside was now devoid of Aelfinn bodies, though a few discarded bronze swords yet lay about.

"That's strange," the Lightborn commented, noting the absence of his victim's remains.

Kiam glanced back into the Chamber that they had just left. The Aelfinn corpses strewn upon the floor inside had vanished also. "That's stranger," she muttered.

"I don't think we can go back to the Gate," the Lightborn mused, "the Snakes know we came in via there, they'll almost certainly be waiting for us…"

"Do you know another way out of here, Lightborn?" Kiam demanded, once she had assimilated this unwelcome information.

The Lightborn shook his head. " _I_ don't… but I think that Elisane Sedai does."

"I do?" Elisane responded weakly.

"You are _Ta'veren_ , Aes Sedai!" the Lightborn enthused, "the Pattern will aid you in this – choose a direction and we shall take it."

Kiam nodded thoughtfully. "The Lightborn may have something there," she mused, "you've always been unnaturally fortunate, Elisane… assuming that you _are_ _Ta'veren_ , the Creator won't let you die in this vile place."

"Nor us either, one would hope," the Lightborn added, fervently.

Kiam sneered at him. "Self-preservation, Lightborn? How commendable!"

" _Duty_ , Kiam Sedai," the Lightborn growled, "you have delayed me overlong and I must return to Latra Sedai, that I might resume my role as her protector!"

"Yes, I am sure that your mummy misses you!"

" _Bajad drovja!_ She is _not_ my-"

"Stop sniping at each other, you two!" Elisane chided, "honestly, the pair of you never change!" She lay back in the Lightborn's arms and closed her eyes wearily. "Alright… I don't believe that I _am_ _Ta'veren_ , whatever you may think, but under the circumstances, I am prepared to give it a try… it can't hurt… turn right!"

Through the labyrinthine halls they travelled for what seemed an interminable span of distance, losing all track of time in the process. At each junction and meeting of corridors, Elisane would choose the path which Kiam and the Lightborn then faithfully followed. They did not encounter any Aelfinn or worse, Eelfinn, though on many an occasion Kiam thought that she saw swift movement behind them, and she felt hostile eyes on her all the way. After a while, she noticed that the tiles beneath their weary feet had changed, though she was not sure when this had happened. Instead of the spiralling patterns, they now displayed arrangements of triangles.

"That may be a good sign," the Lightborn commented, when Kiam drew his attention to this.

And then, they finally came to a broad, curvilinear portal leading into a circular, domed chamber, empty but for the artefact at its centre; a twisted, redstone Doorway, made up of oddly joined angles, three downward pointing triangles etched into each of the uprights. Kiam and the Lightborn regarded the ancient _ter'angreal_ with relief.

"You did it, Elisane Sedai!" the Lightborn congratulated the Aes Sedai.

"I did?" Elisane responded drowsily, "perhaps I am _Ta'veren_ after all..?"

"Assuredly, you must be!"

Elisane did not reply. She had fallen into an exhausted slumber.

Kiam started toward the Doorway eagerly, but the Lightborn stopped her, staring at the triangles that decorated the artefact. "Hold! This isn't the Aelfinn Doorway… tis the _Eelfinn_ Doorway!"

"Correct," growled a harsh voice from behind them. Kiam and the Lightborn whirled round. A slim figure stood in the mouth of the portal, watching them with large, pale eyes. For an instant, Kiam thought it was yet another Aelfinn, it was certainly proportioned like one, but its skin was pure white, not scaly, and it had reddish hair in a long crest that fell down its back. It was a female, clad in white skirts and a pale blouse that appeared to be made out of some sort of thin leather. Kiam tried not to dwell on just what sort of skin had been used to make the garment.

"Ware Fox!" shouted the Lightborn, about to attack, until he abruptly recalled that he was cradling a comatose Aes Sedai. He hesitated.

The inhuman creature smiled, revealing teeth that were too sharp, not unlike the Lightborn's, Kiam considered. In fact, its ears were also similar to his, ending in abbreviated points, lying flat against its skull… though without the hairy tufts at the end.

"Are you an Eelfinn?" Kiam demanded, reaching into the satchel and clutching the comforting length of a firestick.

"Yes," answered the Eelfinn in its bestial tones, "I am of the near ancient, a knower of many secrets… and _you_ are human, an Aes Sedai… but what is _he?_ " It pointed a clawed finger at the Lightborn, who seemed to be debating whether to place Elisane on the floor, or pass her to Kiam. In the end, he did neither, opting for glaring at the Eelfinn dangerously.

"Never you mind what I am, chicken-thief!" the Lightborn snarled, "try to prevent us from escaping and you'll regret it, though but briefly!"

At which, another voice hissed; "you are a fool!" Kiam blinked. Now, a tall Aelfinn stood beside the Eelfinn, a male this time, wrapped in red cloth, his disturbing slitted eyes fixed on them. The two did not acknowledge one another, did not so much as glance in each other's direction, their attention fixed on the intruders. Kiam examined them closely, getting a strange impression that this pair of parasitic, unknowable creatures were somehow one and the same, two opposing sides of an identical, evil coin…

"You do not abide by the ancient Treaties," the Aelfinn continued.

"You threaten us in our own Realm," the Eelfinn added, "foolish!"

Kiam pulled a firestick from the satchel, waving it warningly. The Finn-folk both winced slightly, raising their hands in an oddly placatory gesture.

"Peace, Aes Sedai!" growled the female Eelfinn, "there is no need for the terrible flames that you bear!"

"We're _leaving!_ " the Lightborn shouted, "don't try to stop us or snake-meat and fox-flesh are going to be on the menu!"

The Finn-folk looked pained. "We have no intention of stopping you, fell Stranger," the male Aelfinn protested.

"We _wish_ for you to leave, in fact!" the female Eelfinn went on.

The Lightborn blinked. "You do?"

"Yes," hissed the Aelfinn, "you are too savage for us, too disruptive." It frowned. "You are unlike any who have come here before. You are _not_ human… tell us, what _are_ you?"

"None of your damned business!" the Lightborn answered, rather rudely.

The Aelfinn shook its head, looking troubled. "It disturbs us that we cannot see your fate, Stranger. It is as though you do not exist…"

"Of course I exist!" the Lightborn insisted, "though I have my doubts about _you_ , Snake!" He paused, squinting at the Aelfinn curiously. "Hold a moment… you look familiar… didn't I _kill_ you?"

The male Aelfinn smiled enigmatically, baring its pointed incisors slightly. "You cannot kill that which does not live," it hissed, then turned and walked sinuously away.

The female Eelfinn began to leave in the opposite direction, with a lithe, stalking gait, then paused, staring back at the Lightborn with the pale eyes that dominated its narrow features. "One final thing, Stranger," it declared in its harsh tones, "the one you call 'Father,' he who made you… this Aes Sedai took something from us, a time ago. We want it back." The Eelfinn smiled nastily, red lips spreading, baring its sharp teeth. "We shall have it back!" Then, the Eelfinn turned and prowled away. They were left standing alone beside the redstone Doorway.

In the silence that followed, Kiam and the Lightborn looked at each other. "Well… that was unexpected," the Lightborn muttered.

Kiam frowned, tugging at the Lightborn's arm impatiently. "Let's _go!_ "

The Lightborn nodded. He glanced down at Elisane, and smiled tenderly. They moved toward the Doorway of the Eelfinn in step, the sleeping form of the Aes Sedai they had rescued held carefully in the Lightborn's arms. "Kiam Sedai?"

"Yes, Lightborn?"

"You said that in return for my aid with your quest, you would tell me why you hate Father so much."

"Yes, I did, didn't I…" Kiam murmured, not looking at the Lightborn.

"Well, then… why _do_ you hate Father?"

Kiam paused before the Doorway that would take them back to the World of the Wheel and sighed. She glanced up at the Lightborn, who was watching her intently with his strange, cobalt eyes. She spoke softly; " _Lopiang_ is the House-name of my mother's family… my true suffix is _Kufer_."

The Lightborn's feral eyes widened. "So Chaime Kufer is..?"

"My paternal grandfather. The only living relative left to me is the notorious Defector, he who was sanctioned by the Hall of Servants for giving his allegiance to the Shadow. He who conducted forbidden experiments under the patronage of the Dragon, bringing the reputation of an ancient and noble line into disrepute. _That_ is why I hate him so." Kiam scowled up at him. "Satisfied, Lightborn?"

The Lightborn thought about it, then shrugged, and nodded at the Doorway. "Come on, Kiam Sedai. Let's go home."

* * *

 **The Eye of the World – 331AB**

Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai, stood at the very edge of the Eye of the World, remembering the escape from Sindhol. After a timeless interval and a wave of sound that, as the Lightborn had surmised, was less severe than that of the Gate, they had stepped through the Doorway of the Eelfinn into a dusty vault deep beneath the Grand Hall of Servants in Paaran Disen. A great many stockpiled _ter'angreal_ were stacked haphazardly against the stone walls. Oselle Sedai had been there too, attended by a couple of her _Da'shain_ , all staring at them with a great deal of shock and surprise as they emerged from the redstone Doorway.

The Lightborn had scowled at Oselle, naturally, she being one of the senior Aes Sedai who had called for his destruction as a boy, not to mention the execution of his 'Father.' _Not_ his Father, of course… Kiam's _Grandfather._ But even now, it still gave Kiam pleasure to recall the look on Oselle's face as they made their unexpected appearance. It was probably the only time in her long life that the verbose old Aes Sedai had been lost for words.

Kiam sighed… Oselle… whose bones lay buried beneath an ancient tree, up above. Along with the mortal remains of many other old friends and allies from the War. Well, she would join them soon, and finally be at peace.

"One cannot escape fate," Kiam whispered.

Raolin heard, and looked away from the immense pool of liquid _saidin_ that had held his rapt attention for the last hour. He had not spoken once, as they made their way along the sloping passage with its ethereal, glowing walls, down to the huge cavern roofed with shining crystals, far beneath the earth; the place that contained the Eye of the World. His dark eyes held a level of guilt and hopelessness that Kiam had never seen in him before. Caraighan was entirely correct in saying that Kiam held secrets… and she had kept Raolin's secret very well. It had been entirely necessary.

"I wanted to tell you, Mistress…" Raolin confessed quietly, "many times. I knew that I could not hide what I was, that which I had become, but…" his voice trailed-off, his eyes returning to the enormous pool of _saidin._ Pure. Untainted.

Kiam could not believe the sheer size of the Eye, the untold power that it represented. Why had they created it? What was it _for?_

"When did it begin for you, Raolin?" Kiam asked softly. She knew that he could not have been channeling for long, if at all... her young Warder showed no signs of madness. She was all-too familiar with the mark of the Dark One's Taint upon a man.

Raolin answered without looking away from the Eye of the World, his words delivered even more tonelessly than usual; "it started about six months ago, I am not sure exactly when. I began to have strange dreams about happenings that would oftentimes occur later, to see visions of distant events that had not yet come to pass…"

"What sort of events?"

Raolin glanced at Kiam, a bitter smile curving his lips. "Tarmon Gai'don."

"Oh."

"And then, there were the... incidents. I was alone in the armoury one day, looking at a sword that I admired… and it flew across the room, right into my hand. I did not realise what was happening at first, did not know that I was channeling… but then, I overheard some Red Sisters discussing the early evidence that they looked for in men who touched the True Source. Then, I _knew._ " Raolin shrugged, dismissively. "Knew that I was doomed." His voice became angry, a rarity for the usually self-controlled young man; "all I ever wanted was to be Gaidin, to serve the White Tower and my Aes Sedai, to fight the Shadow!" His calm returned with equal rapidity. "And now… now it seems that I am something _worse_ than the Shadow."

This was easily the most Kiam had ever heard her taciturn Warder say at one time. She shook her head firmly. "Believe me, with the possible exception of the Aelfinn and the Eelfinn, there is absolutely _nothing_ worse than the Shadow."

Raolin did not seem to have heard Kiam's measured words, he eyed her with vague accusation. "Why did you bring me here, Mistress? Why did you not just hand me over to the Red Ajah to be gentled, rendered harmless?"

Kiam scowled. "I _despise_ the Reds, Raolin! Always have. They barely possess the right to call themselves Aes Sedai, in my opinion, and _my_ opinion is the only opinion that has ever mattered to me!" She approached Raolin, the narrow path about the Eye making it a matter of a single step. She gazed up into his dark eyes, significance in her words; "and besides, it would be unwise to sever you from the True Source, Raolin."

"Why?" Raolin demanded.

"Because there is a very good chance that you might be the Dragon Reborn!"

Raolin stared at Kiam for a long moment, then laughed harshly. Kiam did not believe that she had ever heard her young Warder express mirth before. "This is madness!" Raolin growled, "forgive me, but _you_ are mad, Mistress! And I thought that _I_ was supposed to be the one who was insane!"

"Where were you born, Raolin?" Kiam asked quietly.

Raolin hesitated, then answered reluctantly; "in a shepherd's hut, Mistress."

Kiam nodded. "Indeed. In a rude hovel, set upon the slopes of Dragonmount. Your parents were travelling merchants from Aren Mador, journeying to Tar Valon for a trade fair. They fully intended for you to be born in the Island City, but your mother went into labour unexpectedly early. The hut was the nearest convenient shelter for her to give birth in. And so, you came forth into the world in the very place that Lews Therin Telamon left it, as certain forbidden Prophecies suggest will come to pass."

Raolin's eyes widened. "How do you know this?" he gasped, "apart from myself, they never told anyone!"

Kiam smiled patiently. "Wise of your parents. No-one wants their son's nativity associated with _that_ place, after all. But I have my ways and means. I looked into your dreams, my boy. Intrusive of me, I know, but there it is. For what little it is worth, I apologise. Tell me, is the Last Battle coming?"

"I… I do not know, Mistress. It is in the future, of a certainty, but how _far_ into the future, I cannot say."

"Mmm. Kazandra told me much the same."

"The young Accepted? Your protégé?"

"Indeed. She Foretells fairly accurately, as do you I think, though not near so precisely as dear Deindre could. But well enough to suit my purposes."

"And what _are_ your purposes, Mistress?"

"To see you safe and powerful, so that should Tarmon Gai'don come in your lifetime, you will be able to fulfil your destiny, your function within the Pattern. To defeat the Dark One and his Forsaken. To preserve humanity from annihilation."

"And what if you are wrong, Mistress? What if I am _not_ the Dragon Reborn? Irregardless of my birthplace, what if I am just another Tainted madman, cursed to lose my mind and destroy all that I love and hold dear?"

Kiam smiled crookedly. "Well… then at least you will have earned a place in the history books."

Raolin blinked… but then his lips twitched slightly. "It has taken three long years, but I think I am finally beginning to appreciate your odd sense of humour, Mistress," he muttered, adding; "you know, there really is no-one quite like you…"

"I am aware of that." Kiam patted Raolin soothingly on the shoulder. "Come, Gaidin, let us leave this place. I have something for you…"

Up above, the air was fresh and a welcome breeze dissipated the residual staleness of the cavern that held the Eye of the World. Kiam paced over to Snowdrop, Raolin following, and pulled a thick tube of white silk from one of the saddlebags. She unrolled it, displaying it to Raolin. It was a long banner, depicting a shining, sixteen-pointed star, dark shadows receding from it along the edges.

"I had this made for you," Kiam explained. "It is the banner of Raolin Darksbane, the Dragon Reborn. Under this sign, will you conquer."

Raolin took the banner wordlessly, held it up, examining the stellar sigil. "I oftentimes dream of this star," he muttered.

Kiam nodded. "I am sure that you do. Let your dreams guide you in all things, Raolin. They are your salvation."

Raolin lowered the banner, met Kiam's eyes and inclined his head in assent. "I will, Mistress."

"Incidentally, the design is based on the one emblazoned upon the Lightborn's Shield- _ter'angreal._ I thought it fitting."

"Who is this _Lightborn_ , Mistress? I have heard you occasionally mention him, but did not think it my place to enquire..."

"A Hero of the Light. You might know him better as Sin'aethan Shadar Cor."

Raolin evinced surprise. "He was _real?_ I thought him but a myth!"

"Oh, because of me, he is _both!_ I used to tell the _Da'shain_ children stories of his adventures, suitably edited, naturally. His tales will live on long after you and I are dead and dust, I am sure of it." Kiam embraced the Source, felt the sweetness of _saidar_ flow into her. "Be so good as to kneel, Raolin."

The young Warder obeyed without hesitation, so deeply ingrained was his loyalty to his Aes Sedai, in spite of recent events and revelations. Kiam touched his brow, inverting a complex web of Spirit. It was over in moments and Raolin rose, registering confusion.

"I cannot sense you anymore, Mistress…"

"That is as it should be. I have dispelled the Bond between us. I release you from my service. We must go our separate ways now, you are no longer my Warder." Kiam smirked. "Which means that you do not have to call me 'Mistress' anymore!"

"But Mistress…"

"Oh, have it your own way!"

"But Kiam Sedai… what am I to do?"

Raolin looked stricken, the first such expression Kiam had ever seen him evince. Well, it was rather a lot for the young man to take in… but at least the hopelessness had vanished. He had purpose now.

"Many things, Raolin. But firstly, you must travel south, to Mafal Dadaranell."

"I must? Why there?"

"You now have a banner, Raolin. You shall need a Bannerman to bear it for you. In the city, you are fated to meet a soldier by the name of 'Tarwin.' He will be your first follower, though by no means your last. Men and women of all nations will flock to your standard. To wage war on the Shadow, you shall need an army."

Raolin nodded. "I suppose I shall, at that." He looked quizzical. "How do you know all this, Kiam Sedai?"

"I know nothing. Young Kazandra Foretold it. She told me. I am telling you. That is all." Before leaving the Tower for the last time, Kiam had said her goodbyes to her young protégé, and given the girl her old soldier's _angreal_ as a farewell gift. Kazandra had proved time and again that she could keep a secret as well as her mentor… she would do well when Raised to Aes Sedai, and would one day lead the White Ajah, Kiam hoped. But not become Amyrlin, that would be a waste of her talents.

Kiam stepped forward and formally embraced Raolin, feeling him tense with surprise, for she was not given to acts of affection, particularly where men were concerned. But after a moment, he hugged her tentatively in response. Kiam broke the contact first, moving back to gaze up at the young man who had defended her life from danger on numerous occasions. "I shall miss you, Raolin," she stated sadly, "you have been an excellent Gaidin in every regard."

"I shall miss you also, Kiam Aes Sedai. It has been a great honour to serve you, a true Heroine of the Light…" Raolin hesitated, then asked; "may I please have your garland, as a keepsake?"

Flushing, Kiam realised that she still had the ring of woven flowers perched atop her head… she must look absurd! She removed it, then emulating Caraighan, embraced the Source and wove a Keeping on it, to preserved the blooms for all time. She gave the white garland to Raolin, who tucked it reverently into his coat pocket. He considered a moment, then removed his fancloth cloak, passing it to Kiam.

"I no more have the right to wear it, I suppose," Raolin commented.

"Wear your honour and your pride in stead," Kiam suggested.

Raolin smiled sadly and bowed a final time to his former Mistress.

"I hope that fate treats you kindly, Darksbane."

Raolin shrugged, began to slowly roll up the silken banner. "Well, even if it does not, I cannot complain. I have been a Warder of the White Tower for three years…" Raolin stuffed the banner into his saddlebag and vaulted up onto his warhorse, smiling down at Kiam for one last time; "…I would trade a lifetime as a merchant for _that!_ "

Kiam watched sadly as Raolin-called-Darksbane galloped away, taking a different route than the one Caraighan and her Warders had followed. This was wise, it would be well for him avoid that particular Aes Sedai… Snowdrop whinnied, and Kiam patted the graceful mare's neck, taking comfort in her presence.

"Your Gaidin leaves without you?" enquired a deep voice from right behind Kiam. She jumped and turned to glare up at the Green Man.

"I must say, for such a large… person… you move extremely _quietly_ , Someshta!" Kiam snapped.

"Thank you!" replied the Green Man, mistaking her words for a compliment.

Kiam looked back at the forest, but Raolin Darksbane was gone. "He has his destiny and I have mine," she murmured. That reminded her… Kiam opened her mouth to make a request, but the Green Man pre-empted her.

"You mentioned a boon, Kiam Sedai?" he rumbled, "a task which I might perform for you?"

"Indeed, Someshta. It is simply this; should you see the Lightborn again, and I rather think that you will, kindly inform him that there is a message from me awaiting him in the White Tower." Kiam smiled as she thought of the special missive that she had prepared before leaving Tar Valon for the final time; the secrets revealed and the impossibility of the Lightborn ever being able to answer it… how she loved to have the last word!

The Green Man inclined his large and leafy head gravely. "It shall be as you say, Aes Sedai. I shall certainly inform Blackthorn, should I encounter him."

"My thanks, Someshta. I knew that I could rely on you."

"Where will you go now, Kiam Sedai?"

"Nowhere, actually. With your permission, good Someshta, I should like to abide in your realm awhile."

"But of course! I would be honoured to have you as my guest, Aes Sedai. Will you be staying long?"

"No. Not long." Kiam had seven Talents, more than most, even in her day let alone now, when such abilities were becoming rarer. Her favourite and most useful Talent was, of course, Flight. Her least favourite and least useful Talent had always been Foreknowledge, a rather morbid ability to detect the proximity of her own death. Kiam therefore knew with the certainty of fate itself that she had but days left, a week at most. And she could think of nowhere she would rather spend that remaining time than here, in the peaceful abode of the Green Man. Kiam had no regrets, her final task had been carried out and whether Raolin Darksbane proved to be the Dragon Reborn or a mere pawn of the Pattern, she knew that she had done the right thing in protecting his secret, preserving his existence, sending him to meet his destiny. Kiam doubted whether the Hall of Sitters would agree, let alone the Amyrlin Seat… but then, they would never know. With the possible exception of the Lightborn, all of her old friends and lovers were long dead, and Kiam felt that it was high time she joined them. And with a few notable exceptions, she would take her secrets with her to the grave. Talking of which…

"Someshta," Kiam murmured, pointing a serpent-ringed finger at the huge tree beneath which he had earlier sat, "that large oak over there…"

"My favourite tree!" declared the Green Man, "what of it?"

Kiam's lips curved in a melancholy smile but when she spoke, there was no sadness or self-pity in her voice, just the habitual confidence of a long, long lifetime. "My time is short, Someshta. That oak… when my soul has departed my body, please be so good as to _bury_ me beneath it."


	9. Chapter 7 : The Eagle

**Gleeman Jeb I mean Bob writes:** _now that the interminable Interlogue is over and done with, it is back to the main story... Chapter 7 of ItLotM, in addition to featuring the return of an important character who disappeared without explanation at the end of Chapter 8 of HSUtH, contains a Raab flashback proceeding from page 344 of The Dragon Reborn. I always wondered (as did Mat) what an Atha'an Miere sailor was doing so far from the sea, and have continued Raab's story, attempting to explain this mystery... gratitude to the Great Gleeman Robert Jordan for introducing this character for me to totally steal and invent stuff about! hooray for Raab! Raabtastic! let's keep on Raabing!_

 _this Chapter, which is 1452 words longer than the previous Chapter, but is still shorter than the Interlogue, contains references to peas. I have never much cared for this small, green vegetable, neither the taste nor the consistency appeal to me. I suppose that I am pea-prejudiced. the word 'cucumber' appears only once. there are no other veg-allusions that I can think of. that is all I have to say about that..._

 _as ever, a big thank you to those Wheel of Timers who are Viewing, Visiting, Following and even (gasp!) Reviewing my story..._

 _...Walk in the Light!_

* * *

"Nice place you have here," observed Jebedah Chul Simanon, sometime Master Gleeman, once Court Bard to the False Dragon Davian and now, hunted fugitive. He smiled ingratiatingly and ran his fingers over the taut strings of his lute, producing a pleasing chord. A nervous habit; he really should not do it…

If the Ogier Elders sitting before Jeb were gratified by the strange, short man's compliment, they gave no sign. Very hard to read, the Treebrothers… Jeb had always found it so. The Elder at the centre of the assembled ancient _Tia Avende_ _Alantin_ regarded him with her large, knowing eyes for a long moment, eyes that seemed to see into his very soul. Presuming that he still had one… there _was_ that unfortunate matter of swearing his oaths at Shayol Ghul, despite having later recanted them. Well, it was up for debate.

Jeb tried not to fidget beneath that penetrating stare, and almost succeeded. "Very beautiful," he added, unconvincingly, "fine trees… I have always delighted in nature…" In truth, he far preferred cities, especially these days… so much easier to lose oneself, in a crowd.

At this last remark, some of the Elders eyed each other, clearly sceptical. There were seven of them in large, sung-wood chairs of exquisite artisanry, arrayed against a panelled wall of polished redwood. Jeb stood before them, penitent. He had not been offered a chair of his own; this, he suspected, was a bad sign. Though all of the Elders radiated a wisdom and serenity that Jeb knew he could never match, not if he lived to be a thousand, it was the Ogier woman sitting in the middle who was the most impressive. She wore a heavily-embroidered green robe of an antique cut, her pale hair was very long and would have fallen almost to her feet, had she been standing, the tufts on her ears fine and silky, her lined face expressing uncounted years of existence. She was clearly old, very old.

Jeb wondered if he might live that long himself? Unlikely. Though he looked less than half that age, he had seen ninety-three summers all told, though rather doubted that he would see ninety-four, the way things were going. But the Ogier Elder… it was her huge, pale eyes that made Jeb feel distinctly uncomfortable; she seemed to be looking right inside him, divining every aspect of his personality and character… and almost certainly not liking what she saw. The other Elders; three male and three female, seemed equally disapproving. Their large ears lay flat against their skulls, which Jeb took for another bad sign.

Eventually, the Senior Elder broke the uncomfortable silence, her voice high and reedy with age. She spoke the Old Tongue, whereas Jeb had used the Vulgar, which was increasingly more prevalent in these uncivilised times.

" _We know who you are, human_."

Jeb glanced over each shoulder at the huge Ogier guards looming to either side. Their cold eyes did not stray from him, watching the unwelcome petitioner, unblinking. Though un-armoured, one guard leaned on a massive war-hammer, the other, a gigantic axe with a long handle. You could do a lot of damage with those things… Jeb licked his lips nervously and returned his attention to the Senior Elder. " _You do?_ " he responded, using the Old Tongue also.

" _We do,_ " agreed the Elder, her eyes narrowing, hairy brows drawing down.

" _You are no Gleeman._ " It was an ancient male Elder on the left who spoke, deep and sonorous.

" _Master Gleeman!_ " Jeb corrected, and with the hand that was not holding the lute, gave his colourful cloak an emphatic twitch, causing the numerous multi-hued patches sewn upon it to flutter.

" _You served the notorious Dragon King,_ " accused a female Elder to the right.

Jeb opened his mouth to deny this, as all manner of falsehood had ever come to him with the same ease as music, but he was not afforded the opportunity.

" _You are Jebedah Chul Simanon,_ " stated the Senior Elder definitively, " _posing as a Gleeman; an obvious disguise._ "

" _Tis no pose!_ " Jeb objected, " _Gleemanry was the first trade I ever followed…_ "

" _But not the last,_ " the Elder observed, " _the trades of murderer, thief and mountebank have additionally been yours, I believe?_ "

Jeb sighed. It seemed the game was up. " _You forgot that I have also been a Bard,_ " he muttered, resentfully.

The Senior Elder nodded thoughtfully. " _Yes. It would seem that you have led an eventful life, for a human. I suspect that you are older than you appear, possibly much older. And indeed, we know that you were also Court Bard to Davian, the False Dragon._ "

" _Not for long though! And I didn't exactly_ want _the job, the Dragon King insisted! He wasn't an easy man to refuse, by any means…_ " Jeb felt his concern growing, exponentially. His pursuers close on his trail, fleeing to the nearest _stedding_ and requesting sanctuary had seemed like his only remaining option… but for all their presumed unworldly attitudes, the Ogier were no fools. They knew who he was, they had known all along… this was not good.

" _You are wanted by the Aes Sedai,_ " the ancient Elder continued, implacably, " _the last of Davian's followers to escape justice. The White Tower circulated your description to every known stedding, warned us that you might seek sanctuary under false pretences._ "

" _There is nothing false about_ my _pretences!_ " Jeb argued, " _if they catch me,_ _the Tar Valon witches will sever me from the Power and then my_ head _… you cannot refuse me refuge under those circumstances, surely?_ "

" _Your crimes must be answered for,_ " declared another of the female Elders.

The large male Elder at the end of the row spoke up; " _you bring disharmony to Stedding Oradrin… you must leave. Now._ " He raised a cucumber-sized finger, signalling to the Ogier guards.

Jeb felt a large hand settle heavily and immovably upon each shoulder. It seemed that the fruitless interview was over. He sighed again. " _Would you like to hear a song before I go?_ " he enquired of the Elders, a little desperately.

The ancient _Tia Avende Alantin_ looked at each other, registering surprise and no little discomfort. The Senior Elder regarded Jeb with something that might almost have been sympathy. " _You are an unusual man,_ " she commented, " _even for a human, your manner is most strange. But then, you_ are _a male-channeler, after all. Does the Shadow's Taint affect you to the extent that you imagine we would wish to hear you play for us?_ "

" _The Dark One's Curse holds no fear for me,_ " Jeb claimed defiantly, with more confidence than he felt, then raised his lute. "Well?"

The Senior Elder glanced to left and right, receiving no signs of either assent or dissent from her peers, then shrugged her bony shoulders. " _Very well. Despite what else you have become, I suppose that you_ were _a Gleeman once. Play. Sing._ "

At another signal, the Ogier guards removed their hands from his person. Jeb grinned, twanging the C-string on his lute. " _This one is called; 'The Lay of Anselan and Barashelle,'_ " he explained, adding conversationally; " _a_ _t the Dragon King's behest,_ _I must admit that I executed Barashelle Sedai, but I rather admired her courage, so I made it as quick and painless as possible…_ "

The Elders stirred, evincing disturbance and disapproval, but a tough audience had never deterred Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman. He ran his fingers deftly over the strings, and began.

Afterwards, whilst being marched through the _stedding_ by his grim guardians, taken back to the border where the outside world and blessed, accursed _saidin_ awaited him, Jeb considered that the performance had gone quite well, given the strained circumstances. A couple of the female Ogier had seemed a little dewy-eyed at the ballad of true love, and even the big male Ogier who clearly liked him the least had appeared to approve of the sentiment of selfless sacrifice. Of course, this did not change the fact that the Elders knew of Jeb's dark reputation, and had flatly refused him sanctuary. He was back to square one, his desperate plan had failed and he was most probably not long for this earth. Which was a shame, since he had always loved life. In fact, he wanted to live forever.

His mind working furiously, Jeb disregarded the verdant perfection of the scenery around him, the curious eyes of the various Ogier folk who watched him being led past by the guards, but when a familiar itch in the back of his mind made itself felt, he abruptly stopped walking and stared at a collection of flower-bedecked stones set beneath an enormous yew tree. The guard behind nearly ran into him before stopping also, the guard in front turned and gazed down at their charge, dislike and suspicion colouring his stern features. Jeb ignored them, not taking his eyes off the flat stones, carved with florid, _Alantin_ script, one in particular holding his attention.

"Why do you pause, human?" demanded the lead guard, using the Vulgar.

"You must depart the _stedding,_ the Elders have spoken," added the other.

"What are those?" Jeb asked, pointing at the stones.

"Marker stones," the first Ogier answered, shortly.

His comrade was more talkative, and provided further information; "the mortal remains of male Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends lie beneath them."

"Really?"

"Yes. They were given sanctuary during the Breaking of the World."

"They never left this place."

Jeb frowned. "So you afforded refuge to a bunch of dangerously insane Aes Sedai, but not me? _That_ makes perfect sense!"

The Ogier guards exchanged a wordless glance, then the one in front gave Jeb a withering look, his bushy brows drawing down over large, cold eyes. " _They_ were not murderers and abetters of despotic tyrants! It pleased our forebears to shelter them, Jebedah Simanon."

" _Chul_ Simanon, if you please."

The lead guard scowled. "Your full name does not concern me, human. Will you come with us willingly, or must we bind you with ropes and carry you from the _stedding?_ "

"No need for that," Jeb answered equably, "I know when I'm not wanted." As they resumed their progress, he spared a last glance for the particular marker stone that held his interest, and that of his Talent for sensing _ter'angreal_. He could have told the guards that a powerful artefact of the Age of Legends lay buried beneath it, but did not choose to. The _ter'angreal_ was beyond his reach in any case, perhaps another madman would one day disinter it? In fact, he thought he might have had a prophetic dream of such… a dark-haired youth with deep-set eyes, digging restlessly at the earth with a stick… and a voice, calling out his name. _Guaire._

All thoughts of this future event passed from Jeb's mind as an idea occurred to him. "Does Stedding Oradrin have a Waygate?" he asked the guards.

After a delay, the Ogier before him answered reluctantly; "yes, of course."

"But no-one has risked using it since young Lovali disappeared," added the other Ogier.

"Disappeared?" Jeb prompted.

"He meant to travel to Stedding Shangtai, where a marriage had been arranged for him. After a time, their Elders sent a message saying that he never arrived."

"Perhaps he got cold feet about the enforced wedding and decided to go somewhere else?" Jeb suggested. _The Blight, for example!_ he considered privately, shuddering at the prospect of Ogier nuptials.

"Unlikely."

"Lovali would not have disobeyed his mother."

They walked on in silence for a while, Jeb having to hurry a bit to keep up with the Ogier's long strides.

Clearly, the rearmost guard had been dwelling upon the mystery of the vanished _Alantin ti Avende_ youth. "The Ways are changing," he mused mournfully, "they are decaying, and other _stedding_ report disappearances also. It may be that there is something evil at work within those darkening paths, which-"

"Hush!" snapped the lead guard, "must the human criminal know our business?" The talkative Ogier blushed, ears twitching, and fell silent.

Jeb smiled. Dissention within the ranks of his enemy always appealed to his yen for chaos. But he did not like the sound of these Ways, for all that there appeared to be no other options open to him. It seemed that the choice was between _Shai'tan_ and the deep blue sea… as bloody usual!

The path they followed ended abruptly at the edge of a stand of tall beech trees. Jeb recognised the place; it was where he had entered the _stedding_ , earlier that morning. Sanctuary denied, he was back where he started. The two Ogier guards paused, and one gave him a slight shove, indicating that he should keep walking.

"Go, human," commanded the less verbose Ogier, "and do not trespass upon Stedding Oradrin again. This place is forbidden you."

Jeb turned, walking backwards, baring his teeth at the guards in something that was not quite a smile. "In which direction is the Waygate?" he enquired.

"South," answered the other Ogier reluctantly, "though you would be ill-advised to use it, human. As I said, there could be something-"

"I'll take my chances," Jeb interrupted, adding; "oh, and please tell your Elders that one day I shall return and utterly destroy them! You too! Your people will weep bitter tears before I am done with my vengeance…"

As Jeb passed over the bounds of the _stedding_ and its mysterious aura vanished, he felt the familiar siren-call of _saidin_ return to him. The urge to connect with the Source was almost overwhelming. He ignored it as best he could, raising a hand to his neck and touching the bronze torc that the Eelfinn had given him, for reassurance. Though the ancient _ter'angreal_ that was supposed to protect him from the Taint seemed a little less effective with each passing day, as if its power was failing. Doubtless, the accursed Foxes had tricked him. Though he had tricked them also, requesting a way out and then putting them all to sleep with his singing before they could exact their heavy price. A pity that they had woken so soon… he had barely made it out of the Tower of Ghenjei in one piece.

Jeb then patted his belt-buckle, worked in a sinuous Eternal Serpent-shape, his second gift from the Eelfinn. He could have used the Power in the Well to teach those self-righteous Elders a fatal lesson, there and then… but more Treebrothers would have come, there was not enough _saidin_ in the storage _ter'angreal_ to kill them all, and it would have gone badly for him. 'As soon pull a mountain down on your head as anger the Ogier.' Truer words were never spoken.

As for his _third_ gift from the Foxes, the most important request he had made… Jeb pulled the antique, jagged dagger from its sheath and glanced down at the curling script inscribed into the jet-black metal. He knew the ancient, High Chant words off by heart, as well as he recalled every line of every song and story he had ever performed…

' _Thus Agreement made;_

 _Our Compact now is writ_

 _A Key within a Blade –_

 _Luck in place of Wit.'_

Jeb had always found that last line rather insulting… was it the Eelfinn's way of saying that he was merely a fortunate fool? Probably. However, deciphering the penultimate verse had proved to be his salvation; plunging the dark knife into that glowing wall, carving out a large triangle and etching a smaller, inverted triangle within it… leaping through the shining exit that had opened for him… escaping the claws of the vengeful, pursuing Foxes with but moments to spare… quite an adventure! But the Eelfinn had long memories, they would not soon forget that he had cheated them. Jeb expected that there would be a reckoning, one day. It was inevitable.

At the crest of the hill he was climbing, Jeb paused to look down at his campsite, noting with relief that his horse was still there. But so were a dozen riders swathed in crimson cloaks, cowls pulled down to hide their ageless features. His pursuers had caught up to him, as he had known they would.

" _Tsag!_ " Jeb cursed, glancing back toward the towering trees of the _stedding_ … but that place clearly offered no refuge. Curse the Ogier and their complacent attitudes! He would get even with them one day, if not these particular _Tia Avende Alantin_ of Stedding Oradrin, hidden up in the foothills of World's End, then _other_ Ogier, elsewhere. They were all the same, were they not? Tree-loving, pompous book-worms, good for nothing but singing wood and building ridiculous edifices!

When Jeb turned back to the campsite, the Aes Sedai below were now all looking up at him. Their eyes were cold but some of them were smiling predatory smiles. They were Red Ajah hounds, and he was the fox. "Never say die," Jeb whispered, then whistled shrilly. His horse, a coal-black stallion, reared, lashing out with iron-shod hooves at the closest riders, then promptly galloped up the hill toward him. "Good lad!" Jeb shouted approvingly, stowing his lute on his back and swinging deftly astride the racing stallion as his mount drew level with him. He had always been a skilled horseman, his people were renowned for it. He dug in his heels as they thundered down the slope, urging the horse to greater speed. "Faster, _Shai'tan!_ " Jeb roared, and the stallion obeyed, kicking up clods of turf as he guided him south. Naming the Dark One was considered unlucky, giving one's _horse_ that appellation must be even worse… but Jeb had never been particularly superstitious.

" _Sene sovya caba'donde ain dovien ya!_ " Jeb quoted loudly, then laughed wildly. It was apt. Luck _was_ a horse to ride, in this instance. A glance over his shoulder and the laughter died. The dozen Red Sisters were pursuing grimly and had drawn too close for comfort. Their mounts were fresher than Shai'tan, who had borne him far and fast for the last week's flight from the Abayan border. Jeb had been hiding-out in Falme, until the town got too hot for him. He had been hoping to take ship for somewhere far away, Aile Dashar perhaps, and then the fabled Islands of the Dead across the Aryth Ocean, even… but that had not worked out. Foolish to return to Basharande, he supposed, it was known in the White Tower that this was his birth-nation and they would be looking for him there, but he had not been home in a long time and it had seemed as good a place as any.

Jeb risked another look behind; the Aes Sedai chasing him had decreased his lead further, doubtless they had recently channeled strength back into their horses. This was a trick that he had never been able to master himself; whenever he tried, his efforts had usually just killed the unfortunate animal. Shai'tan was labouring now, his breathing heavy, foam on his flanks.

"Where in the Pit is that bloody Waygate?" Jeb fumed, but then he saw it, up ahead. A tall stone slab worked with intricate leaves and vines, half-hidden by overgrown brambles, set out at the southern edge of the _stedding._ A risk, by all accounts, but currently his only hope for escaping a slow gentling followed by a swift execution! Jeb reined Shai'tan in before the Waygate and slid down from the stallion, which stood stiff-legged and blowing hard.

"Well done, old fellow," Jeb commented, patting his horse affectionately on the neck as he turned to regard the Red Ajah riders approaching at speed. He concentrated, squinting at his enemy and seizing the raging torrent of _saidin_ with the ease of long-use. Immediately, Jeb felt giddy and unhinged, as he often did of late when he touched the Source, but he needed to buy himself time, for which channeling would be necessary. With a strength of mental discipline entirely at odds with his demeanour and behaviour, Jeb wrenched the tumultuous forces within him into some semblance of control. "Fire, I think," he muttered.

Immediately, a high wall of fierce red flames sprang into existence in a circular formation about the Waygate. Shai'tan was not troubled by this, long inured to his master's channeling, but the Tower-trained mounts of the Aes Sedai reared and retreated, in many cases unseating their riders. The Red Sister at the fore remained in the saddle, however, skilfully keeping her horse tractable with deft movements of reins and knees. Her dark, tilted eyes were fixed on Jeb, her cowl had fallen back during the chase, revealing smooth, ageless features, a hawkish face with a bold nose.

"Good morrow, Natalin Sedai," Jeb called out, "good to be home, is it not?"

Like himself, the lead Aes Sedai was a native of Basharande. This was about all they had in common…

"Surrender, Master Simanon!" Natalin responded, "your flames shall not hold us back forever…"

"Long enough to suit _my_ purposes," Jeb retorted, turning and scanning the surface of the Waygate for the distinctive trefoil leaf… there should be only one… He had never used a Waygate before, but Davian had, and had told him what to look for.

"Quickly, Sisters, link with me!" Natalin Sedai commanded, as the other Red Ajah picked themselves up and assembled about her on the far side of the flaming wall.

Had Jeb been watching, he might have noticed how angry they all looked and felt trepidation, but instead he spied the carved Avendesora leaf and plucked it eagerly from the Waygate. Immediately, the stone surface came to life, writhing as though in some strong breeze, though the air was still. A line appeared down the middle, bisecting the Waygate and the two halves opened outwards. Jeb beheld his wild-eyed reflection in what appeared to be a dirty, full-length mirror and blinked, rubbing his stubbled jaw. "I could use a shave," he mumbled.

"Stop him!" Natalin shouted, but it was too late.

Still holding the stone trefoil leaf in one hand, Shai'tan's bridle in the other, Jeb entered the Waygate without hesitation, calling over his shoulder; "do give my best wishes to the Amyrlin... and enjoy your penances, Red Witches!"

The sensation of passing through the mirrored portal was unpleasant and Shai'tan clearly agreed; Jeb had to tug with all his might to get the reluctant stallion to follow him inside. Once within the Ways, he watched through the dim aperture as the ring of flames vanished and the Aes Sedai surged forward. They moved slowly, like flies caught in honey, but still they moved. Jeb hastily placed the trefoil leaf on the inside of the closing gates, just above an identical stone Avendesora carving, locking the Waygate as Davian had advised him to, should he not wish to be followed.

"Safe at last," Jeb commented with satisfaction, though not liking the way his words echoed in the still darkness… well, he could do something about _that_ , at least. He yet held _saidin_ and it was but the work of a moment to summon three small globes of light into existence, glowing spheres that revolved about his head in a luminous dance. Not that there was much to see by the pale illumination, just a white line extending away from the Waygate and disappearing into the gloom ahead. Shai'tan whinnied softly, then fell silent. Jeb patted the black stallion soothingly on the nose. "There, there, old chap, we've been in worse places than this." The horse did not seem to agree, but rolled his eyes and snorted disparagingly. Jeb chuckled.

An uncertain time later, and Jeb was in no mood for mirth, which was extremely unusual for him. He was hopelessly lost, he had come to reluctantly acknowledge, and was correspondingly beginning to lose hope. He sat slumped astride Shai'tan as the exhausted stallion plodded slowly along yet another of the accursed crumbling bridges that hung in a seemingly infinite void, cursing fate and regretting, not for the first time, that he had never troubled to learn Ogier script. The occasional, pitted stone posts upon which the twining, silvery lettering appeared were as illegible to him as if he were illiterate. Had he been capable of deciphering what were presumably directions, he might have been able to select some sort of destination, but as it was, he could only wander at random in the hopes of finding another Waygate through which to escape this endless, gloomy maze. No luck, so far.

The effort of holding _saidin_ had begun to make his head spin, so Jeb had taken to using his belt-buckle Well- _ter'angreal_ to maintain a single light globe, refilling the device as and when was necessary. It was an added effort, but he did not particularly relish the prospect of being plunged into darkness, especially within the Ways.

Jeb frowned, dwelling upon the grim discovery he had made, back on one of the large island structures from which the bridges and ramps extended… the emaciated corpse of an Ogier youth. Presumably, it had been the unfortunate Lovali, whom the guards had mentioned. But what had killed him? There had been no marks of violence upon his large body, which had been somewhat skeletal, indicating that he had most likely died of hunger…

Jeb was not much given to sentiment and did not particularly care for Ogier, but had nonetheless used weaves of Fire to dispose of the pathetic remains, muttering a few words of empty blessing as he did so. He distantly hoped that someone might do the same for him, one day, if he shared young Lovali's dark fate, which was seeming more and more likely. "What a depressing place to die," Jeb muttered, looking about himself disapprovingly. As though seconding his opinion, Shai'tan whickered.

At first, Jeb thought that it was his imagination, much given to playing tricks on him of late, but as the sound increased in volume, he became certain that it was no illusion… _wind_. The noise of the wind in a place where such could not possibly exist, approaching from behind. And within the wind, distant voices, steadily growing louder, whispering horrific threats and dread promises. Jeb immediately realised that he was hearing the mysterious 'something' that the brooding Ogier guard had hinted at, the evil presence that now haunted these dilapidated Ways…

Without pausing to listen further, Jeb dug in his heels and spurred Shai'tan forward into a stumbling canter. He could feel the stallion's weariness in his halting movements, but had little choice except to flee. There was something coming for him that he could likely not resist with _saidin_ , that was far worse than the Red Ajah, he instinctively knew... some horror that would do worse than merely kill him, but would mayhap steal his soul and leave him to wander the Ways until he perished, as had befallen the misfortunate Lovali.

Before long, the desperate horse and rider reached another of the islands, various disparate paths into darkness leading off along differing directions. The dread sound of the pursuing wind had swelled to gale-like proportions by this point, and Jeb did his best to not heed the horrid voices that rose and fell within it. He ignored the useless Ogier guiding post and instead frantically scanned the various routes that lay before him… mostly more of the ubiquitous bridges, but one path differed from the others, a spiralling ramp that descended into darkness. There was no reason why it should be any better than the other ways off the island, but something about it stirred Jeb's instincts, and he had learned long ago to trust such feelings. They had served him well in the past, and he could only hope that they would do so now…

Shai'tan was too spent to run any further so Jeb slipped down from the saddle, attempting to pull the stallion with him by the bridle. The horse flatly refused to move, four legs planted firmly, chest heaving, head hanging down. The wicked wind howled, the fell voices shrieked. Jeb knew that his exhausted mount would go no further.

"Sorry about this, old fellow," Jeb whispered sadly, "but I can't leave you for that _thing_ , whatever it is…" he drew the jagged blade from his belt and swiftly stabbed Shai'tan in the neck, aiming for the large artery in the throat, "…this way is cleaner." Jeb jerked the arcane knife out and arterial blood spurted. Shai'tan sank to his knees, then rolled upon his side, lying still as a spreading pool of gore seeped from the deep wound. Jeb looked upon his faithful companion of many long leagues with regret, blinking back a single tear, then turned and ran down into the darkness, which swiftly swallowed him. At his back, the scream of the black wind rose to a crescendo, but now the terrible voices that rode upon it seemed to have changed. They sounded almost… _disappointed_.

A long time later, longer than he knew, Jeb woke, blinking bright sunlight out of his aching eyes… it would seem that he was no longer within the Ways. Then where was he? He appeared to be laying in sand, could hear the lap of waves upon the shore, the shrill calls of seabirds.

"I am on a _beach_ ," Jeb surmised, speaking to himself as he often did. Was this another of the dreams that plagued him, visions that often came true? Unlikely, it all seemed too _real_ for that. Jeb sat upright, groaning and clutching his pounding head. He felt terrible; therefore, he must still be alive. Whatever that vile wind apparition had been, it had failed to catch him, as had the Red Ajah, despite their best efforts. Perhaps things were looking up? Shading his eyes from the fierce rays of a foreign sun, Jeb gazed out before him at the endless, azure ocean that seemingly stretched on forever, empty of ships. Perhaps not.

A week later, and Jeb knew that he was in deep trouble, a depressingly familiar state. The entirety of the tiny island that he had inexplicably awoken on could be traversed in less than ten minutes, by his reckoning. There were some palm trees, but no fresh water, so he had subsisted thus far on drinking the milk and eating the flesh of coconuts, plucked from branches with weaves of Air and split open with his jagged blade… but these providential fruits of the palm were getting scarce. His efforts to catch fish had met with little success and in any case, the dull grey flesh of these local creatures was practically inedible, and had sickened him when he consumed it. The few seabirds that nested here did not seem to be in the mood for laying eggs, and after he had killed and cooked the first with weaves of Fire, they had grown wary and were now keeping their distance, avoiding him assiduously. Jeb had heard that in the Age of Legends, Aes Sedai had been able to use the Power to produce water from thin air, possibly sustenance also, but he had no idea how to do it.

Jeb occupied his time by sleeping in the rude shelter that he had constructed from palm fronds and sitting on the beach, wondering how in the Wheel he had _got_ here. The last thing he remembered, after giving mercy to poor Shai'tan, was racing down a spiralling ramp into pitch darkness… a path that had descended concurrently with the fading of his senses and consciousness, he seemed to recall. And then, he had awoken on a Light-forsaken desert island set in the middle of the bloody ocean! _Which_ ocean he had no idea, but it was hot here, wherever _here_ was, so presumably a long way from the Westlands. After all, had he not desired to voyage to a far-away land?

"Be careful what you wish for," Jeb mumbled, through dry, cracked lips, scratching fitfully at his ragged beard.

On the eighth day, having consumed the final coconut, Jeb resolved to kill himself. It beat starving slowly and painfully to death, he supposed. Sitting in his accustomed spot upon the beach, the place where he had first returned to his senses, or at least what remained of them, he stared glumly down at the dark blade gifted to him by the Foxes, trying to decide whether to stab himself in the chest or the throat… or perhaps he might just slash open his wrists?

Something instinctive made Jeb look up before he could arrive at a decision regarding his mode of suicide, and he blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating. A large, three-masted Atha'an Miere ship now lay anchored out beyond the breakers and a longboat was putting in toward the shore, rowed by several oarsmen… oarswomen also, naturally. A tall, Sea Folk female stood in the bow, staring at him. The bright sunlight flashed on the medallion-bedecked gold chain that linked her ear and nose rings.

Jeb stood unsteadily, brushing the sand from his patched cloak and trying to make himself look presentable, failing miserably in the process. The longboat reached the beach in due course and several Atha'an Miere crew leapt out, pulling the craft further up the shore. The woman, presumably the Sailmistress, stepped out of the boat and strode up the beach toward Jeb, followed by a slight Sea Folk youth, his eyes downcast. The Atha'an Miere Captain wore pale satin trews with a gaudy yellow sash and a light silk cloak, red in hue. That was it… Jeb tried to ignore her proud, bare bosom, without much success. He had long been a connoisseur of the undraped female form, an aesthetic indulgence that he had not had the opportunity to cultivate in quite some time, and found it difficult to avoid staring.

The Sailmistress halted her swaying progress before him, dark eyes drilling into his. "Stop looking at me like that, Gleeman!" she snapped, touching the curved, ivory-hilted dagger tucked into her sash.

"Sorry!" Jeb croaked, his mouth dry as the desert, adding; "do you have any water?"

The Sailmistress shook her head curtly, but the youth behind stepped meekly forward and offered Jeb his flask. The other Sea Folk waited by the longboat, watching silently. Jeb un-stoppered the leather bottle with a shaking hand and took a measured sip, which became an incautious gulp. He coughed, wiped his mouth and passed the flask back to the youth. "Thank you, friend." The young Atha'an Miere fellow did not respond or meet his eyes... there was something oddly _familiar_ about him, Jeb sensed, though they had certainly never met.

"What do you here, Shorebound?" the Sailmistress demanded, "were you wrecked?"

"Yes," Jeb lied, "I shipped aboard a vessel outbound from Tear, but we were driven off course by a gale." He laughed. "I'm not even sure where I am, to be honest…"

"The Southern Ocean," the Sea Folk youth muttered, without looking up from his bare feet.

"Be silent, Jaro!" the Sailmistress shouted angrily, then turned back to Jeb. "Were there any other survivors?"

Jeb shook his head. "I do not think so… I clung to a piece of driftwood for a time, and was washed ashore here." Jeb glanced at the tattoos on the hands of the two Atha'an Miere. "Clan Takana, I believe?" he murmured.

The Sailmistress nodded. "I see that you know something of our ways, Gleeman," she commented, levelly.

Jeb shrugged. "I have taken passage with the Sea Folk before," he responded absently, his gaze drifting downwards.

"Cease staring at my breasts, fellow!"

"My apologies! Force of habit, I am afraid…"

Scowling, the Sailmistress arranged her cloak over her upper chest, muttering; "you Shorebound men are all alike… salacious and perverse!"

Jeb wisely chose not to answer, instead eyeing the anchored Atha'an Miere ship hopefully. "A fine craft, Sailmistress. I don't suppose I might..?"

"Take passage with us? Aye, I suppose so… with no gift given, since you are, after all, a Gleeman… a rather dirty, malodorous Gleeman, but a Gleeman even so." The Sailmistress drew herself up proudly. "I am Korena din Sudim Breaking Wave, Sailmistress of the _Windrunner_. What are you called?"

"Jeb."

Korena frowned. "Just _Jeb?_ "

"Yes."

"Odd names you Shorebound have, but then, you _are_ a Gleeman, and your fraternity are much inclined to strangeness, I have noticed."

" _Master_ Gleeman, actually."

"Whatever."

Jeb glanced at the _Windrunner_ again, an appropriate name he considered, since he had been running from the wind immediately prior to arriving in this desolate spot… "Might I enquire as to your destination, Sailmistress?"

"We voyage to the far south, to the great unknown continent that lies beyond the accursed smoking islands. We intend to commence trade negotiations with the inhabitants."

"Oh?"

"No ship of the Atha'an Miere has been there since the Hawkwing's day," the Sea Folk youth whispered, seemingly speaking to himself.

The Sailmistress scowled darkly and slapped him. "Do not speak, Jaro!"

Jeb winced, then frowned, confused. "The Hawkwing, you say? Who is that?"

Both the Sailmistress and the chastened youth, Jaro, looked at Jeb, disbelief in their dark eyes. "Is that supposed to be a _joke_ , Gleeman Jeb?" Korena demanded.

"No! I have never heard of any Hawkwing…" Jeb considered, then hastily added; "though I hit my head when my ship foundered, I have been having trouble remembering things…"

Korena snorted contemptuously. "Well, you had best recall all your songs and stories to divert my people, Gleeman, or you can _swim_ home in stead… I do not carry dead weight on _my_ ship."

"Oh, I am mindful of _those_ , as any Gleeman would be, it is just that I don't seem to have any memory of this Hawkwing you mention…"

Korena frowned. "Peculiar. Well, if you must know, he was the High King in the Westlands some five-hundred years ago. He ruled from the Aryth Ocean to the World's Spine, but then he died, as even Kings do, and the Shorebound fell to warring amongst themselves for a century or more… it was bad for trade…" Korena shook her head, impatient. "Why am I troubling to tell you this, Gleeman? I am a Sailmistress, not an _historian!_ "

"Yes… I think that I am starting to remember these events," Jeb said carefully, "tell me if you please, do you know the date?"

"I grow weary of these questions, I came to this barren rock for another purpose than to elucidate tiresome Gleemen!" The Sailmistress glared at young Jaro, who blushed and hung his head, then she relented slightly. "I checked the log at dawn, as I always do… for your information, Gleeman Jeb, according to the Shorebound Farede calendar, it is the seventeenth day of Danu, in the five-hundred and thirteenth year of the New Era."

Jeb's brow furrowed. Farede, Danu, New Era? Like this King Hawkwing, he had never heard of any of them. "Not the Free Years, then?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

The Sailmistress reacted with disbelief, whilst young Jaro stared at Jeb in confusion. "May it please the Light, are you touched in the mind, Gleeman? Have you been drinking seawater? The Shorebound ceased accounting by the Free Year reckoning more than a half millennia ago, after the War of a Hundred Years!"

Jeb smiled in sickly fashion, his mind racing. "Oh yes… of course… it is all coming back to me now," he commented, distractedly. _What had happened?_ After Davian's fall, he had been on the run for some thirteen months, it had been at the beginning of the three-hundred and fifty-fourth Free Year when he went into the Waygate… and yet, he had been deposited here, thousands of miles away and many hundreds of years later! Was it the Dark One's Taint? Had he gone mad? Well, _madder_ …

"I am sick of this!" the Sailmistress complained, "I shall answer no more of your foolish questions, Gleeman… voyage with us or stay here, I care not!" Without another word, Korena turned and strode back down the beach. Jeb hastily retrieved his lute from the sand and hurried after her. The youth, Jaro, stayed where he was, disconsolate and alone.

"Isn't he coming?" Jeb wondered.

Korena shook her head. "My cursed nephew remains here."

"Oh. Why?"

" _More_ questions! Because he did not have the courage to _drown_ himself, _that_ is why! Come!"

Jeb glanced back at Jaro. The unfortunate young man had sunk to his knees in the sand, head in his hands. _Now_ Jeb knew what was familiar about the ill-omened Sea Folk fellow… he could _channel!_ Amongst the Atha'an Miere, for a man, that was a death-sentence.

"I'm awfully sorry Jaro, but I ate all the coconuts!" Jeb shouted to the doomed youth, then turned and hastened down to the longboat that would take him away from this awful place. It seemed that, after all was said and done, luck was indeed a horse to ride, like any other…

* * *

 _I write now of the Bhan'dhjin Samma, the Breaker of Worlds, the Un-maker of Time's Great Wheel… and who better than I to tell of it? I am the one responsible for its construction. A prodigious effort. Let that fool Ishar Morrad Chuain brag of his crudely spawned armies, that conceited imbecile Mierin Eronaile boast of letting loose the Great Lord's touch upon the World of the Wheel… Aginor and Lanfear are mere puppets, like all of the childish Chosen, too blind to see the strings that make them dance to our Master's dark and devious tune. I could have joined their ranks, enjoyed a position of high status under the Shadow, but ever scorned this dubious honour. I far preferred to remain hidden, to concentrate upon my terminal task in conditions of the utmost secrecy. The scant few who were aware of my labours called me insane, but I cared not. No-one will ever know my name, nor who I once was… none but my patron, the Great Lord of the Dark. He alone. And with that knowledge, I am entirely content._

 **fragment of a private journal dating from the later years of the Collapse**

 **Anonymous Author; presumed to be a former Aes Sedai and Friend of the Dark**

 **[Note: while the description alluded to has been lost, see attached diagram for further erudition]**

 **information compiled by Senior-Librarian Althar son of Soela son of Fernig**

 **Chamber of Ancient Records, Stedding Dashai**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven * The Eagle**

The large galley rounded the forest-swathed headland, turning east to the slow beat of a drum, double lines of long oars dipping and sweeping the turgid water in solemn time with the steady percussion. Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, was feeling a little better now. When their craft had headed south about the vast coast of the Land of the Madmen, they had encountered a heavy swell from the west… the resulting pitching and heaving of the deck beneath her had prompted a violent reaction in the young Amadici Noblewoman. Shrina and Renn had helpfully held her on either side whilst Ellyth leant over the rail and rid herself of what felt like every meal she had ever eaten… though it in fact proved to be just the simple gruel and hardtack that they had been given by their captors, the fare that everyone aboard the galley subsisted on. Well, it had all gone into the sea, and she had sunk to the deck in a state of profound misery that was only partly due to their unfortunate plight as prisoners.

Ellyth had always been a poor sailor, to put it mildly, though the current nautical conditions had paled in comparison to her travails during the great storm that had descended upon them in the Aryth Ocean. But Ellyth would have gladly given up her present circumstances in favour of the situation then; for one thing, they had not been the captives of masked fanatics, the male-channeler servants of the murderous, insane Master Gleeman who had led them into this trap in the first place!

Ellyth glanced up as one of these forbidding men walked past, their leader in fact; a burly, thick-set fellow, his bare, barrel-chest and powerful arms inked with ugly red tattoos of an arcane nature. He wore tattered britches and a fur cloak, a bronze torc about his bull neck, features hidden behind a rough, leather mask etched with a smiling mouth. Through the eye-holes, a dark, incurious gaze examined the four female prisoners briefly as he strode past, then the big man was gone, heading toward the tiller at the rear of the galley. This large steering-oar was manned by two of the sailors, similarly-garbed men, though their tattoos were black, their masks plain un-dyed leather, bereft of the smile design.

Ellyth suspected that the men without the red masks could not channel; whereas the eight individuals sitting cross-legged against the rail opposite certainly could. Through the holes in the masks, cold eyes watched their charges intently, unblinking, and it was clear that _they_ were responsible for the fact that Ellyth and her companions were being kept from touching the True Source. In addition, the octet of male-channelers also wore the torcs about their necks. Ellyth's particular Talent had long-since revealed that these bronze artefacts were more than merely decorative, that they were in fact _ter'angreal._ _New_ _ter'angreal_ , made relatively recently, and every one _identical_. This was utterly unheard of! She had never encountered a _ter'angreal_ that was exactly the same as another, it was like finding two matching snowflakes! There could be but one explanation for this, however incredible; someone amongst the enemy possessed the lost Talent for actually constructing and duplicating these devices that utilised the One Power.

Ellyth had communicated this discovery and the resulting theory to the others. Renn agreed with her whereas Shrina was habitually sceptical, despite the incontrovertible evidence. The Sharan Ayyad woman, Dara, did not have an opinion; since their capture, she had sat silent and incommunicative, rarely reacting to anything and refusing all offers of food, drinking only a little water. Ellyth was rather worried about her new-found friend, but had larger concerns to occupy her. Primarily; how in the Light were they to get out of this mess? They were being taken to somewhere far away, _where_ she had absolutely no idea, and their captors had ignored all queries on the subject.

How was Naythan to find her now? While they shared much, this did not include a Bond, he would have no way of locating her… of course, Shrina and Renn both had Warders who would be able to sense the direction in which they travelled, but there was no indication that they were free to mount any rescues. Jabal was probably still a prisoner on the Island of the Hawx, and though the madman who called himself the Laughing God had claimed that the Twins had escaped captivity, every other word from out of his perpetually smiling mouth had proved to be a lie, so there was little reason to believe him in this instance. At least the three Gaidin yet lived, had they perished, Renn and Shrina would certainly have sensed _that_.

Ellyth looked at her friends. Renn was leaning back against the rail, eyes closed, unruly locks of pale hair obscuring her brow, a small smile curving her lips. She was most probably not sleeping, however, but was simply lost deep in thought, attempting to plan a way to improve their situation. Ellyth left her to it, she knew better than to try to rouse her Brown Ajah friend from one of her intense bouts of contemplation with anything less than a bucket of cold water tipped over Renn's head!

Beyond Renn, Dara was sat slumped on the deck, dejected, ignoring her companions and surroundings with a single-minded ability to blot out that which was unpleasant… Ellyth rather envied her this. She eyed Shrina, sitting to her other side. Her Green Ajah friend was yet engaged in glaring darkly at the pair of red-masked villains sat opposite her, the ones who were holding her Shield in place. Of all of them, Shrina had attempted to break the imposed block that prevented them from channeling the most often, but her efforts had all been in vain. Their masked captors were just too strong in the Power, and did not even become angry when the prisoners tried to free themselves from their Shields, but rather appeared to look on the exercise as a valuable opportunity to practice their skills… it really was too provoking! Men tended to be physically stronger than women, it seemed most unfair that this advantage should also apply to channeling. But there it was…

"It does little good to stare at them like that, yes?" Ellyth murmured to Shrina.

The fiery, red-headed young Aes Sedai did not look away from the objects of her ire. "I am not staring, I am _glaring!_ " Shrina growled.

Ellyth sighed. "The two seem much alike."

"Well, they aren't! I'm letting those madmen know that I am certainly _not_ scared of them…"

Ellyth smiled and patted her friend approvingly on the arm. "You are not scared of _anything,_ Shrina!"

Shrina tore her gaze away from their guards and eyed Ellyth, smiling back at her, opening her mouth to perhaps return the compliment, but…

" _That_ is one of Shrina's many problems!" Renn muttered, without opening her eyes, "she hasn't the sense to know when to feel fear!"

Shrina scowled. "She speaks!" she commented sarcastically, "and I thought our beloved Bookworm lost in deep introspection! _Well?_ "

"Well what?" Renn enquired, opening her eyes and levelling a placid gaze at Shrina.

"What do you _think?_ Have you managed to come up with some kind of an escape plan?" Shrina demanded, not troubling to lower her voice.

Ellyth flinched, and shot a surreptitious glance at their captors, but the masked male-channelers did not appear to be listening.

"No. Not yet," Renn answered softly, closing her eyes, "but I-"

" _More speed!_ " the burly commander of the Laughing God's men bellowed. His name was Harper, Ellyth recalled, and the others did his bidding without question. In response to this shouted order, the tempo of the drum-beat below increased and the oars quickened their pace, churning the water to either side of the galley.

Peering down through a grating set into the centre of the deck, Ellyth could just glimpse the motion of pale arms in the darkness, chained to the long sweeps moving back and forth. The men down there were also prisoners, and she did not envy them their lot. They were clothed in brief rags, looked ill-used and malnourished, and the stench that occasionally rose from the oar-deck was indescribable. In a brief period of lucidity, Dara had referred to the manacled rowers as 'slaves,' a word with which Ellyth was unfamiliar. Apparently, they also kept human chattel in Shara, or Co'dansin as Dara called it, enslaved workers who laboured in plantations and foundries until they dropped dead and were replaced by further unfortunates. The very idea was anathema to Ellyth, it seemed an evil practice, reminiscent of something the Shadow might do.

Then again, these galley slaves that propelled their craft over the water at least had an assured place in the scheme of things… they knew their fate, however unenviable that might be. Ellyth was yet unsure as to what might befall she and her friends, and that unknown concern gnawed at her mind. What she would not give to see Naythan! The recollection of their last, dreamlike tryst warmed her soul, for all that she was no besotted maiden from a torrid romance of the kind that Shrina avidly read! Or perhaps she was, now? Ellyth found herself thinking of Naythan often, in terms that made her blush, when her thoughts should really have been devoted to more immediate, practical matters. Such as-

Suddenly, Dara stood, staring to port, the large, dark eyes set in her tattooed face fixed on the north. At the same time, Renn's own, pale eyes snapped open and she sat up straight. Shrina ceased her fruitless glaring and turned her head. And Ellyth felt it too, far away, in a northerly direction… something _huge_ was taking place, involving an enormous quantity of _saidar_ , more than she would have thought could possibly be channeled.

"What _is_ that?" Shrina wondered, rising and helping her Blue Ajah friend up. Ellyth leaned on the rail, legs a little wobbly from the motion of the waves and the remnants of her debilitating sea-sickness.

Renn clambered to her feet also, gazing north. "It is some of our Sisters, I believe, linked in a Circle and channeling _saidar_ on a scale that I would not have thought possible," she murmured, "why, it is like some magnificent working of the Age of Legends!"

"It feels as though it is far away," Ellyth conjectured, staring unblinkingly in the direction her senses revealed.

"A long way away," Shrina agreed.

"Imagine the power!" Renn enthused, "such that we can detect it from halfway across the world!"

"I cannot be certain, but I think that there is a _ter'angreal_ involved, yes?" Ellyth added, "a very potent device…"

" _Weather._ " The voice had a melodic, foreign accent, was somewhat cracked from disuse. It was Dara who spoke, not taking her eyes from the northerly direction indicated. "Whomever they are, I sense that they are weaving elemental webs, doing something to alter the climate with the Holy Power." The others looked at her, surprised. Dara eyed them and smiled crookedly.

Ellyth was glad to note that whatever the strange phenomena was, it had stirred the Sharan woman out of her dark mood, hopefully for good.

"It is not _my_ people manipulating the weather," Dara went on, "the Ayyad – may they all rot! – know little of such wreaking. It must be Aes Sedai."

The three young Sisters considered this, but then a male voice with a pleasant tenor to it broke in on their speculation; "or Atha'an Miere! Windfinders know much of elemental channeling."

Alarmed, they turned and stared. One of the red-masked male-channelers had approached their group, bare feet silent on the wooden deck. He was slimly built, though with an athletic physique, his skin bronzed where it was not marked with the red tattoos… but this was all that could be discerned of his physical appearance. Very dark eyes, almost black, filled the holes in his mask, flicking towards them briefly before resuming their gaze northwards. The britches he wore were less ragged than those of his fellows, decorated with faded stripes, while the fur hung over his shoulders was cleaner, pure white, the pelt of some creature Ellyth did not recognise. The masked channeler continued conversationally, speaking the Vulgar with a musical tone; "I would say _both._ A combination of Sea Folk and Aes Sedai, channeling together to affect the climate. It has been unnaturally hot of late."

Dara turned away from him with a sniff of disapproval whilst Ellyth and the others exchanged glances that held a deal of surprise and confusion. Apart from telling them where to sit and sleep, none of their captors had spoken at such length to them so far. This particular red-masked madman, who seemed younger than most of the others, was a clear exception. Who was he?

"Windfinders?" Renn asked, after a pause to consider the fanatic's words, "they are Atha'an Miere navigators are they not? What have they to do with channeling?"

" _Everything!_ " the youthful male-channeler responded, and laughed softly, the smiling mouth etched into his mask making his mirth seem macabre. The Laughing God's man jerked a thumb at Shrina, a thumb attached to a hand that Ellyth noted was unmistakeably tattooed with Sea Folk Clan sigils. Shrina noticed also; her green eyes widened with shock, then narrowed. "Ask her! She knows… tell them, cousin!" Still laughing, the young man turned and walked away, a swagger in his step. His eight comrades sitting opposite continued to stare at their charges silently, holding the Shields inescapably in place.

" _Sit down!_ " roared the burly leader, Harper, up on the raised deck that held the tiller. His masked face turned, dark eyes fixed on the younger male-channeler who had spoken to them. Though his features could not be seen, Ellyth got the impression that he was frowning. They hesitated, their attention still held by the powerful emanations originating from far to the north, where some mighty working of the One Power was assuredly taking place. "The prisoners will resume their seats!" Harper added loudly, in his deep, harshly-accented voice, taking a warning step toward them.

Ellyth sighed and sat back down on the deck, tugging Shrina's arm to get the glaring young Aes Sedai to do likewise. Renn was already sitting and after a moment, Dara joined them. They could all still feel the enormous quantity of _saidar_ being channeled half a world away, however, and presumably, so could the mysterious young madman who had so confusingly addressed them. The odd fellow with the Atha'an Miere tattoos was now up in the bow of the galley, leaning on the rail, his masked face turned toward the north.

"Who is that strange youth?" Renn wondered, "it seems that he can sense _saidar_ … I never heard of such an ability in a male-channeler."

"And why did he call you 'cousin?'" Ellyth asked Shrina. The Green Sister scowled, and declined to answer, but Ellyth was persistent; "he had Sea Folk sigils tattooed onto his hands, in addition to those red ones on his arms and chest, yes?"

"He also seemed to think that Atha'an Miere Windfinders can channel," Renn chimed-in.

"Oh, they can." It was Dara who spoke. Ellyth and Renn looked at her curiously. Shrina sniffed, and made a point of looking elsewhere. The young Sharan woman shrugged. "From time to time, Sea Folk ships have been wrecked upon the coasts of Co'dansin. Of course, those survivors not enslaved are put to death, especially these Windfinders of theirs. They have proved themselves dangerous in the past, most of them channel strongly, but they are nothing that the Ayyad cannot deal with."

Shrina turned and scowled at Dara, clearly not liking what she was hearing… there seemed little love lost between the two.

"But the Atha'an Miere send their woman who can touch the Source to the White Tower!" Renn protested, "and they're not very strong in the Power…" She then frowned. "Bloody objectionable they are, too!" she muttered, clearly dwelling upon the behaviour of certain Library Sisters.

"Doubtless, that is what they _wish_ you to think," Dara speculated, "but I would imagine that the Sea Folk keep their strongest channelers aboard their ships, where the Aes Sedai do not go."

"They _do_ tend to refuse passage to the Sisterhood," Ellyth agreed, "which has always seemed a little strange to me… it is rare to find any unwilling to oblige Aes Sedai." She glanced back at Shrina, who seemed uncomfortable. "Well, Shrina? The young madman said that you would know, yes?"

Shrina frowned. "I can't tell… it's a secret!"

Ellyth raised her delicate eyebrows, surprised. " _Really,_ Shrina, since when have we kept secrets from each other?" Shrina stared glumly at her boots, refusing to meet her friend's accusatory eyes.

"We were _novices_ together!" Renn reminded Shrina, resorting to emotional blackmail.

Shrina was looking guilty, a rarity for her. "I'd tell you if I could, Ellyth, you too Renn, but I simply cannot… it's _forbidden!_ "

" _Why_ is it forbidden?" Renn demanded.

"Because neither of you are _Watchers!_ "

* * *

N'aethan and Someshta stood beneath the huge, spreading oak in the aspect of the Green Man's realm that yet existed within the heart of _Tel'aran'rhiod_. They were speaking quietly to one another. All around them; small birds sang and colourful butterflies danced in the air, bees buzzed from flower to flower and essentially, all was well. Appearances could be deceptive…

"…and so, the Aes Sedai that could fly requested that after her demise, I inter her beneath this oak, though of course, it is but a reflection of the actual tree that existed in the World of the Wheel…" Someshta sighed gustily. "I would suppose that my favourite oak is lost to the Blight, by now."

N'aethan shook his head. "I will go there one day and find it," he promised, "I shall lay flowers upon the grave, though Kiam Sedai never much cared for them…" he stiffened with resolve; "but I will do it anyway! Such symbols are important."

"I sang a Tree Song for her," Someshta continued, not really listening to his fellow Construct, "a very _long_ Tree Song… it went on for quite some time…"

"I can imagine!" N'aethan commented, secretly glad that he had missed _that_ particular recital. The Tree Songs of the Nym, whilst impressive, could be extremely monotonous… Ogier singing was almost as tedious… He shook his head, feeling melancholy. "Of course, I knew that Kiam Lopiang must have passed away long ago, even Aes Sedai do not live forever, but these tidings sadden me nonetheless."

"Be not sad, Blackthorn!" Someshta boomed, slapping N'aethan comfortingly upon the shoulder, making him stagger, "this is a place for happiness, not…" Someshta trailed-off, staring at something.

"Not _what_ , Someshta? Misery? Depression? Suicidal impulses?"

"Who is that, Blackthorn? Do you know her? She is waving at you…"

N'aethan turned in the direction Someshta was indicating with a large, green finger, and beheld Tamei approaching from the woodland, the she-wolf Ice trotting beside her. The slender girl was clad in her usual apparel, a brief doeskin tunic, her golden eyes fixed upon them.

"Hello, Claw-Monster!" Tamei called, cheerfully, "I have been looking _everywhere_ for you…" She stared at Someshta, her pretty mouth falling open in amazement. "What is _this?_ " she demanded, "I thought it was a strange-looking tree, but then it _moved!_ "

N'aethan glanced up at Someshta, whose leafy brows had drawn down in a puzzled frown at this unwarranted intrusion upon his realm. "This is the wolf-girl I told you about," N'aethan explained.

"How did you come to be here, Wolfsister?" Someshta asked loudly, "my forest is open only to those whom I have invited…"

Tamei shrugged, looking about herself with interest. "Oh, I go where I will in the Wolf-Dream," she answered airily, "there are few places that I cannot walk."

"I have heard very ancient tales of your kind," Someshta muttered, "in an earlier Age, your people ran with wolves across the great ice tundra and lived as animals do." He looked at Ice, who stared back at him, head tilted to one side.

"Apart from the bit about the 'tundra,' whatever _it_ may be, that is pretty much an accurate description of my day to day existence," Tamei agreed with a sigh, her curious gaze returning to Someshta, "but I _have_ no people, there is just me… me and the pack."

"The old ways are returning, it would seem," Someshta mused.

"I suppose so. If you don't mind my asking, or even if you do, what exactly _are_ you?" Tamei wanted to know, reaching out and giving Someshta's viny leg an exploratory poke.

"I am Someshta, last of the Nym," Someshta explained.

"He is also known as the Green Man," N'aethan added, scowling at Tamei, still brooding about being called a 'claw-monster.'

" _The Green Man?!_ " Tamei cried, then laughed loudly, hands on her hips. "Why, that is just a children's story!"

"This is what the Shaido Aiel said of _me_ , they thought the legend of the Nightwatcher but a bedtime tale, until I proved that I was real by beating them up!" N'aethan snarled, adding menacingly; "would you like Someshta to do similarly to you, to illustrate the same point?"

Tamei completely failed to respond to this not particularly well-veiled threat, instead exclaiming, "I must say, you look very smart, claw-man! Much better garbed than when last I saw you in the waking world…"

N'aethan temporarily forgot his ire and glanced down at himself… as often happened in _Tel'aran'rhiod_ , wishful thinking had taken control over his dress sense and he was currently resplendent in the dress-uniform of a Warman Officer. Dark silk coat and trews, gold braid and matching epaulettes, a Heron-mark blade at his belt… he really had no right to wear any of it, but had never been particularly skilled at controlling his impulses within the Dream World. "It is but my _cadin'gai_ ," he muttered, slightly embarrassed. Concentrating, he made the gaudy apparel transform into his ordinary, Third Age clothes.

Tamei blinked, then made a sighing, disappointed sound. "What a shame! I don't particularly care for males, as you know, but there _is_ something rather attractive about a man in a well-tailored uniform…"

"Never mind that!" N'aethan snapped, "what do you here, wolf-girl? Can I not have a moment's peace to talk with an old friend without you intruding?"

Now it was Tamei's turn to scowl. "Well, that's _nice!_ Manda asked me to find you and tell you she is seeking you so I did and this is the thanks I get? You are a _rude_ monster!"

" _I_ am rude? You are _gauche_ , wolf-girl, it is doubtless a result of co-habiting with stinky, flea-ridden wolves!" Ice growled softly. "You have ill-manners and…" N'aethan trailed-off, as Someshta had earlier, then queried; "wait, did you say; 'Manda?' The Spear-Maiden? You have seen her?"

"I shall not answer that until I receive an apology."

"I am sorry," said Someshta gravely, in his deep voice.

"Not _you_ , Tree Man! The Claw-Monster must apologise for his insult, or I shan't say another word!" Tamei crossed her arms and glared at N'aethan.

"If only!" N'aethan muttered.

"And they _don't_ have fleas, I regularly delouse them!"

N'aethan opened his mouth to do anything _other_ than ask pardon, but at that point he was roughly shaken awake, fading rapidly from _Tel'aran'rhiod_ and returning to confused consciousness. "What..?" he mumbled.

It was Chassin who was tugging industriously at his arm. "Arise, Vron'cor," insisted the short Shaido Knife-Hand.

N'aethan sat up, feeling disorientated. The memory of Ellythia Sedai being taken away from him in the galley came flooding back, and he groaned softly. A hideous retching noise became apparent, and N'aethan turned his head in time to see the Gleeman, Roth Blucha, vomiting noisily over the side of the longboat. "He is being sick _again?_ " N'aethan muttered, wonderingly, "he must be the worst sailor I have ever seen…"

"I myself am growing accustomed to the motion of the waves, Nightwatcher," Chassin reported smugly, "it may be that I am even coming to approve of this travelling over the water that we do."

"Do you wish a _medal_ , Chassin?" N'aethan snapped, not in the best of moods, "why did you awaken me? I was in the middle of something…"

In answer, Chassin pointed toward land with one of his spears.

N'aethan looked to his right, and with his sharp eyes, immediately spied a tall figure wearing the _cadin'sor_ , standing on a promontory above the beach, waving a black veil back and forth to get their attention.

"See, Vron'cor?" stated Chassin, "Manda signals to us."

"So she does." N'aethan stood, balancing with ease on the pitching planks of the longboat, and yawning, made his way forward, past a double row of gaunt, dirty sailors, who were doing their best to not stare at him. Jabal and Dagnon were both taking a turn on the oars, sitting beside each other to better compare notes on their various doings since last they had met; the two Warders nodded to N'aethan as he slipped past, feet sure on the rocking strakes.

Up at the bow, the big, dark-skinned Bosun lowered his telescope, the end of which he had been steadying with his hook, turning away from the shore. "Another Aiel," he commented, without much in the way of pleasure, "an Aielmaid, in fact… you know her, Master Shieldman?"

"I do indeed, Bosun. Take us in."

"Aye-aye, sir!" the Bosun responded, touching a grimy finger to the front of his three-cornered hat.

N'aethan smiled sourly. These sailor-folk were taking his orders readily enough now, but the previous night, it had required a fair bit of rapid explanation to make them pick him up from the beach, when they had all escaped from the Isle of the Spire, their mission to rescue the Aes Sedai a dismal failure. Well, they had found Jabal Gaidin at least, but Ellyth and the others… N'aethan scowled, then swiftly glared over his broad shoulder. Sure enough, the sailors rowing the longboat were all half-turned on their benches, watching him curiously. At the sight of his disturbing, slit pupils, they rapidly looked away, attending to their duties, but a couple of pairs of oars collided as they caught crabs and it took a moment to sort themselves out.

"Watch what you're doing, you scurvy lubbers!" the Bosun roared, "else I'll feed you to the lionfish!"

"But I am not hungry!" jested Jabal. Dagnon grinned, his large moustache tilting upwards.

"Not _you_ , Atha'an Miere," explained the Bosun, "I meant the-"

"I _know!_ " Jabal din Sudim Lionfish shouted, exasperated, pulling on his oar with unconscious skill, as beside him, Dagnon mirrored his movements. "You Shorebound have no sense of humour," he added, disparagingly.

"Man the tiller, Gleeman," the Bosun commanded, but Roth was clearly in no condition to obey.

" _I_ shall steer the ship-boat!" cried Chassin eagerly, grabbing the wooden handle and turning it the wrong way. It took but a short while to sort things out, however, and soon they were headed for land.

N'aethan turned away, gazing towards the shore, which was steadily creeping closer. Manda was descending to the beach, running lithely through the dunes. So she had met the wolf-girl, Tamei, it seemed… he pitied her! And the Seanchan assassin Mitsu, young Feren also, he assumed. They should all be back at Stedding Dashai by now… N'aethan hoped that the studious Ogier youth could find some pertinent information about the dread weapon of the Shadow, this _Bhan'dhjin Samma,_ but other concerns occupied him at present. He had to free his Aes Sedai from the Laughing God's cruel clutches as a matter of great urgency, her safety was his primary duty and he had failed in ensuring it. True, she had sent him away against his advice, but Middle Brother had always had a rather rude saying concerning excuses, which he had been fond of quoting whenever his younger sibling had offered up a mitigating reason for not accomplishing something, and N'aethan had never forgotten it.

It was to try to find his beloved Ellyth that N'aethan had entered _Tel'aran'rhiod_ in the first place, but prior to his visiting Someshta instead, there had been no sign of her particular life-spark within the dreaming world... so presumably, wherever she was, she was currently wide awake. Or worse, hidden from his search in some way. How he wished that Ellythia Sedai had been able to overcome his immunity to channeling somehow, and given him the Warder Bond! Jabal, who naturally had such a link with his Aes Sedai, said that Renn was now far to the south… well, they would find them both, Shrinalla Sedai also, and soon. They _had_ to.

N'aethan noted that the Bosun was also eyeing him curiously, and he sighed. " _What?_ " he growled.

The Bosun shrugged, the wide shoulders of his long, brass-buttoned coat lifting and falling with the motion. He smiled companionably, gold-teeth flashing in his dark face. "Just wondering where you are from in the Borderlands, Master Shieldman…"

"Who said I was from the Northborder?" N'aethan demanded.

"I've not heard it called _that_ before, but I assumed you were a Borderman from the way you fight."

The previous night, whilst N'aethan had been trying to convince the sailors in the longboat that he was on their side, citing the fact that he had known the code for the lantern signal to summon them, that the Warder Dagnon had a large, reddish moustache, and that the Gleeman Roth Blucha was clearly a complete fool, a patrol of hawk-masked guards had come along. Though they attacked him promptly with bared blades, N'aethan had not particularly wished to kill them in this instance, so had used a variety of hand-blows, kicks and pressure-holds to incapacitate his opponents. When he had turned back to the longboat, the sailors had all been staring at him as though wondering what he was… and irritatingly, were continuing to do so the next day. All but the Bosun, who seemed to be made of sterner stuff. He had mutely applauded the brief confrontation, hand and hook sweeping silently together, then ordered that the boat put in to the beach and N'aethan be taken on board. After rowing around the island to collect the others, reuniting the Gleeman with his precious harp and patched-cloak, they had left the Isle of the Spire and the Hawx far behind, hopefully for good.

"I don't believe I've ever seen a warrior move _that_ fast, and I was in the Aiel War," the Bosun went on to observe.

"But you are a sailor, and that was a land war, I believe?" N'aethan pointed-out, wishing to turn the subject away from himself.

"The Aielmen aren't much for naval engagements!" the Bosun agreed, grinning, then scowled. "But our fine and noble High Lords did not wish to risk their precious Defenders of the Stone in battle at first, the hard fighting might have besmirched their handsome uniforms, so in stead they swept the docks clean of any man who did not have a ship, pushed pikes into our hands and marched us north to face the black-veiled Aiel."

"How did you fare?" N'aethan enquired.

"Not well. Of my company of near two-hundred men, only seventeen of us ever came home to Tear. I lost a lot of good friends…"

"And your _hand_ , by the looks of it."

"Nope. That happened later, a shark chewed it off. I don't much care for sharks." The Bosun eyed Chassin darkly, the short Knife Hand still inexpertly but enthusiastically tending the tiller in the stern of the longboat. "Can't say I much care for Aielmen either…" he glanced at the beach, where Manda awaited them, "…nor Aielwomen neither, for all that our new passenger is certainly a comely wench…"

"I would not _say_ that to her, were I you," N'aethan commented, absently.

The Bosun nodded thoughtfully.

"I see you, Nightwatcher!" Manda called out when the longboat was but a span from the sandy shore, then glared at N'aethan accusingly. "You have _toh_ to we Shaido for the lie you told concerning-"

"I am aware of that, Manda!" N'aethan interrupted impatiently, "I have already been over it with Chassin, and shall certainly meet the _toh,_ but first-"

"Chassin?" Manda interrupted back, "you have seen him?"

"He is there," N'aethan said, pointing.

Manda blinked, and looked at Chassin, hunched self-consciously over the tiller. "Oh, indeed he is… I could not see him as he is so small…" Chassin scowled. "What are you doing there, Knife Hand?" Manda demanded.

"I am manning the tiller," Chassin revealed, importantly.

"What is a tiller?"

"It is-"

"Just get in the damn boat, Maiden!" N'aethan shouted, "we don't have time for nautical exposition! We needs must return to the camp the Gleeman told me of, collect the others, then rescue the Aes Sedai!"

Manda hesitated, eyeing the longboat with mistrust. "I must travel in _this_ , Vron'cor? My legs shall take me there faster…"

Chassin sneered. "Does _Far Dareis Mai_ fear to journey over the waves?"

Manda scowled. " _Sovin Nai_ are too stupid to know the difference between sand and water," she grumbled, wading through the surf and clambering into the longboat, elbowing sailors out of the way in the process. The rowers backed oars and put out to sea again, Chassin managing to steer them east.

Manda joined N'aethan and the Bosun in the bow, swaying awkwardly on the rocking deck. "I hoped not to have to set foot in a ship again," she complained.

N'aethan ignored her, moodily.

The Bosun smiled winningly. "Tis no ship, miss… tis but a boat," he explained.

"That is even worse," Manda observed, then gave the Bosun an appraising look that moved over his broad shoulders and bare, muscular chest, before ending at his hook. "What happened to your hand, wetland sailorman?"

"It was bitten off by a bloody shark!" N'aethan snapped, then demanded; "why were you seeking me, Manda? The wolf-girl Tamei was sent by you to find me, and unfortunately, she _did._ I was awakened before she could say _why_ , however."

Manda raised her auburn eyebrows, impressed. "So the stories are true… the Nightwatcher _does_ walk in dreams!"

The Bosun blinked, then eyed N'aethan with increased curiosity.

N'aethan sighed. "Of course the stories are true… except for that rather weird one you told me about, with the talking snail in it, I certainly don't ever remember meeting one of _those_ …" N'aethan's tone became speculative, "in fact, I am beginning to suspect that Kiam Sedai may have been responsible for disseminating these ridiculous myths, always liked to make up silly tales for the Da'shain children, did she…" he shook his head, "forget that! What is so damned urgent that I had to be interrupted whilst I was speaking with Someshta?"

"Who is Someshta, Vron'cor?"

"The Green Man!"

The Bosun's dark eyes widened and some of the sailors who were also shamelessly eavesdropping, made gasping noises. N'aethan sighed again.

"Oh, _him!_ " Manda took this revelation in her stride, then revealed; "this is what has happened – Cohradin and Gerom have gone completely mad, as mad as the Dragon! They-"

"I _know!_ Chassin told me."

Manda glared over her shoulder at the stern, where Chassin was smiling tauntingly at her. Roth lay curled at his feet, groaning and twitching.

"What is wrong with the Gleeman?" Manda wondered, "did he perchance eat some rancid goat-flesh?"

N'aethan ignored the question. "I shall restore Cohradin and Gerom to their sense of duty," he promised, decisively.

"How will you do this, Nightwatcher?"

N'aethan smiled grimly at Manda. "Last time, I lied to you about the Da'shain Aiel and their Covenant with the Aes Sedai, for which I am sorry, though it was necessary…" His strange eyes had a faraway look in them, as he thought of something Father had told him as a boy. "This time… I shall tell you all the _truth._ "

* * *

From the cliffs above the beach, Kor Paendrag Athan watched closely, a dark eye peering through the lens of his prized, brass-barrelled telescope. This time, he had taken care to rub mud over the end tube, so that the polished metal would not reflect the sunlight and give away his position. He mentally chided himself for not doing this on the previous occasion, an unforgivable oversight that may have alerted the accursed Aiel savages to the presence of his hunters… but it would have made little difference, in any case. This redoubtable enemy killed as easily as they breathed, it would seem. Little wonder that the Great Hawkwing had not succeeded in his attempt to conquer the wild and ungovernable people of the wastelands beyond the eastern borders of his Empire. Even the High King had had limits to his conquests, and the Aiel had been one of them. Another, of course, had been the Aes Sedai, his twenty year siege of Tar Valon had ended in failure. And then, there were the accursed Sharans, whom Kor's ancestors had not been able to overcome. Though raised to revere the memory of Artur Paendrag Tanreall, Kor could not help but wonder if the man behind the myth had been quite so omnipotent as the legends claimed.

One of the captured witches, the pale-haired, talkative one who spoke the Old Tongue well, had hinted that the Hawkwing might have come to a bad end, that his glorious Empire had then fallen apart, riven asunder from within by generations of civil war. But when Kor had attempted to question her further, the witch had refused to co-operate unless she was permitted to see her husband, the Sea Folk Warder. And there was the dangerous fellow right _there_ , in the bloody boat with the other interlopers, seemingly recovered from his wounds and plying a flaming oar without a care in the world!

Kor scowled, watching Jabal intently through the telescope as the longboat steadily receded into the distance. How had the Atha'an Miere prisoner got free? There were traitors within the castle, he was sure of it. And who had healed him? He had been close to death and was now clearly recovered, it must have been one of the witches using the forbidden One Power… Kor fingered the ivory hilt of the priceless blade he bore… when next he met the Sea Folk Gaidin, he would _kill_ him with his own sword. It would be fitting.

Around Kor, a score of his hunters lay concealed in the bushes, awaiting orders. He could almost imagine that he sensed their impatience, their disappointment that he had not commanded them to attack. But the battle would likely not have gone well for them, as it had not before. Losing half of his hunters to the Aiel savages had lowered Kor's eyes at the Royal Court, despite the capture of the Aes Sedai witches. The Hawx numbers were few, they could not afford such losses. No, fighting against Aiel and Warders, when they were prepared for them this time, might have gone ill for his people. And then, there was the _other_ one, he who seemed to be leading this party of intruders…

Kor shifted his telescope to the bow of the longboat, examining the muscular, white-haired man with the odd eyes. He bore a Power-wrought blade and wore fancloth, but Kor did not think that he was a Warder, as such. He was something of a mystery, like the black ship that had appeared in the middle of the Ghost Forest, beside the Everstone. Kor _hated_ mysteries.

When the longboat was gone, vanished around the headland, Kor stood, carefully wiping the mud from his telescope before retracting the barrels and stowing it in the pouch at his belt. His hunters rose also, watching him expectantly, dark eyes staring from war-painted faces.

" _Trisk. Imro_." Two of the hunters stepped silently forward; a wiry female bearing a scalp-decorated lance and a squat male, clutching a shark's tooth-studded war-club. His two best scouts. " _Go back to the clearing where lies the Everstone_ ," Kor told them, " _search the black ship thoroughly for clues of these strangers. If anyone else has been there, track them. Bring me answers._ "

The scouts nodded, and slipped soundlessly into the Ghost Forest. Kor watched them go, wondering if he would see them again… there were many dangers out there and they might well encounter them. Well, everyone met the Dark Lady sooner or later. Some sooner than others.

" _We return to the war-canoes,_ " Kor told his remaining hunters, " _and thence, to the Isle of the Spire._ "

If they felt relief at the dangerous patrol being unexpectedly cut short, the hunters gave no sign, nor did they express any curiosity as to why they were returning to safe territory so soon. They simply obeyed, moving out in a loose double column, eyes scanning either side of their path for enemies, weapons held at the ready.

Stalking near the front of the line, Kor scowled darkly. He did not know what he would find back at the Castle, the only home he had ever known, but he suspected that it would be bad. There were many hostile opponents for the Hawx to face in this unforgiving land that their ancestors had fled to; from _souvraniene_ to cannibals to the forces of the Laughing God… but Kor had always known, from an early age, that the most dangerous foe of all was undoubtedly the enemy within.

* * *

Mitsu the Bloodknife sat cross-legged in the meadow beyond the tall trees that marked the borders of Stedding Dashai, Tamei's head resting in her lap. She looked down at the girl's face fondly, golden eyes closed, a small smile curving her full lips… people always looked so much younger when they slept, the lines of care caused by the waking world diminished from their features. Nearby, the white she-wolf Ice lay comfortably in the long grass, also asleep. There might be more of the wolves about, Mitsu was unsure, or perhaps they were off hunting. They did not seem to wish to venture into the _stedding_ and were not particularly welcome there, in any case. Neither were humans, less so if anything.

Tamei stirred, murmuring something indistinct, frowning slightly, but did not wake. Tenderly, Mitsu brushed a wayward lock of ash-blonde hair out of her eyes. She glanced at the heavy, curved blade that lay within easy reach, the ancient sword of the High Lord Turak whom she had personally served at Falme… her feelings confused her; ideally, that Power-wrought blade was the only lover she should have, but in the last few days, everything had changed. Mitsu could not be entirely sure, never having experienced this particular emotion before, but she believed that she might be in love… she felt disturbed and elated at the same time. She was experiencing difficulty thinking straight, for all that she had trained long and hard to make her mind as much of a weapon as her body. Her recent thoughts seemed solely fixed upon the young woman who had come into her life so recently, the wild girl who ran with wolves and spoke her mind without hesitation. The passion was certainly welcome, of course, but the companionship much more so.

Tamei did not seem to care that she was an assassin, that she had done dark deeds in service to the Empire of Seanchan… all the wolf-girl seemed concerned with was that in Mitsu, she had found a lover, and also a friend who did not run on four legs! But it went deeper than that… the pair of them had recognised something vital in each other from their first meeting, had fallen naturally into a state of existence that seemed to have always been. They thought the same things, finished each other's sentences, complimenting one another in more ways than could be counted. Mitsu suspected that she and Tamei had been connected with each other in some former existence, many turns of the Great Wheel ago, that they were bound together by fate. That was it, surely; they were soul-mates!

Abruptly, Tamei's golden eyes snapped open and she sat up, shaking her head. At the same time, Ice also woke, rising to her four paws and stretching. Tamei glanced over her shoulder at Mitsu and smiled, leaning back. They kissed.

"Welcome back to the waking world, _chalinda_ ," Mitsu murmured. Of a necessity, they had needed to go outside of the _stedding_ in order for Tamei to be able to practice her particular ability for walking in dreams, since the aura of the Ogier realm precluded this. "Did you find the Chami?" she added.

Tamei made a face. "Unfortunately, yes! That rude monster owes me an apology! Doesn't he, Ice?" The white she-wolf was now sitting on her haunches, watching them approvingly. She made a whuffing noise of apparent agreement, then sniffed the air and rose, loping away into the long grass. "Good hunting!" Tame called after her friend, in encouragement.

"The Chami is ill-mannered," Mitsu commented in commiseration, "where was he, within this Dream World of yours?" She was yet unsure exactly what _Tel'aran'rhiod_ was, though the Chami had attempted to explain it to her before he left to seek his _marath'damane_ consort.

Tamei leant companionably against Mitsu and the Seanchan woman draped an affectionate arm about her young lover. "The Wolf-Dream? Well, I could not locate the clawed-man at first, I looked all over, so then I used _need._ "

"Need?"

"Yes, you close your eyes and imagine what it is that you need to find, you think about it really hard in fact… so I did, and when I opened them, I was in this beautiful forest that I have never before seen in the Dream. After a moment, Ice joined me and we went exploring…"

Mitsu frowned. "I hope that you were careful, you said that there were many dangers in this dream realm?"

"Oh, there are… nightmares and deathtraps and such… but not in this place, wherever it was. There was something about it, I rather doubt that any violence has _ever_ been done there. Anyway, after a bit, we came to a glade and beneath a big oak, the claw-monster was talking to the Green Man!"

Mitsu eyed Tamei doubtfully. "The Guardian of the Trees?" she queried, "the one from the myths?"

"Oh yes," Tamei affirmed, conversationally. "He was a funny-looking fellow! Even odder than the Ogier… all made out of vines and leaves and things… extremely tall…"

Mitsu blinked her dark, tilted eyes. "I do not mean to question what you saw, _chalinda_ , but you are certain? It was the _Green Man?_ "

"Why, yes!" Tamei shrugged. "Did you yourself not tell me that you heard the Horn of Valere sounded, beloved? That you have seen the Heroes of Legend, beheld the Dragon Reborn duelling with the Dark One, up in the sky?"

Mitsu winced slightly. She wished that she had not related these particular events to Tamei, but it was too late now. Her customary circumspection seemed to melt like ice in the sun, beneath the gaze of a pair of fine, golden eyes! But as for Falme, and what had ultimately happened there… it was a day that she did not like to think about, perhaps the worst day of her life, but for the one on which her cherished older sister had been made _damane_ , collared and led away, never to be seen again.

"And the Chami is real too," Mitsu muttered, darkly, "another creature out of stories, come alive…"

Tamei nodded emphatically. "We are living in the end times, I think," she conjectured, soberly.

Mitsu nodded too. "Tarmon Gai'don is coming," she stated, with finality.

"Tarmon _what?_ "

"The Last Battle, _chalinda._ "

"Oh, _that._ The wolves call it the Final Hunt. Any day now, apparently!" Tamei did not seem overly concerned at this prospect, she held her head at the usual proud angle, no trace of fear evident in her shining eyes.

Mitsu smiled approvingly. "You have the heart of a warrior, Tamei," she murmured. Tamei smiled back. They kissed again, a lingering meeting of lips that went on for some time. When they finally broke this pleasurable contact, Tamei was looking flushed and Mitsu's heart was pounding. The wolf-girl tugged at the shoulder of her tunic.

"Do you want to..?"

Mitsu did not answer, she did not _need_ to, but began to remove her loose shirt. Then, an unwelcome shadow fell over them.

"Forgive me, humans, am I interrupting something?" boomed a deep voice.

" _Yes!_ " Tamei shouted.

Mitsu took her hand off the hilt of her sword, since it was only Feren the Ogier youth and stood, gazing up at him. "What do you here, Gardener?" she enquired, a little cross at being disturbed at such a moment. Still, one had to show courtesy and respect to Ogier, even those that did not serve in the Deathwatch Guard, it was deeply ingrained in her.

"I came to tell you both that I may have found some information about this 'Breaker' that the Rat-Catcher, I mean the Lightborn, asked me to look for." Feren glanced around the sunlit meadow, long grasses waving in the breeze, buzzing insects going about their business, wildflowers blooming here and there… "It is quite pleasant without the _stedding_ ," he mumbled, thoughtfully, "though it does feel strange."

Tamei made a rude noise, Mitsu repressed a smile. "The _Bhan'dhjin Samma?_ " she prompted.

"Yes, I believe that I now know what it _looks_ like!" Feren glanced at Tamei, who was glaring up at him. "Did you find the honoured Lightborn in the Dream Realm, Tamei?" he enquired, completely failing to notice her ire.

Tamei ceased glaring, sighed, then nodded, rising gracefully to her bare feet. "Yes, Feren," she answered, "I passed on the message that the Aielwoman seeks him. Then, the claw-man was rude to me and said nasty things about the wolves, but before I could extract an apology, he disappeared! Like in a magick trick! I talked to the Green Man for a while, but I got the impression that his mind was on other things and he sort of wanted me to leave, Ice too, so I said goodbye and made myself wake up."

Feren was gaping at Tamei, his huge eyes wide. " _The Green Man?!_ " he spluttered, "you mean _Treebrother?_ "

"I thought _you_ were a Treebrother?" Tamei responded, confused.

"No! I mean, yes… it is complicated! But 'Treebrother' is what we Ogier call the fabled Green Man. You are fortunate to have met him, I would that I could do likewise… a great honour!"

Tamei shrugged. "I suppose…"

"Tell me, what is he _like?_ " Feren demanded eagerly.

Tamei thought about it. "Well… he was very… _green,_ " was all she could come up with at short notice.

Feren's pointed ears drooped a little, disappointment evident in his blunt features. This time, Mitsu could not quite repress the smile.

In the distance, the wolf-pack howled, a note of warning in their voices. Tamei cocked her head to one side, listening intently, brow furrowing with concern.

"What is it?" Mitsu asked, gripping her sword hilt tighter.

The wolves howled again, closer now, an urgent tone to their calls.

Feren frowned, placing large hands over his hairy ears. "The Elders have received complaints about the noise," he reported, "it has been keeping people awake at night."

Mitsu ignored the Ogier youth, her attention on Tamei. The young wolf-girl had tensed, touching the obsidian-bladed knife sheathed at her belt, her golden-eyed gaze fixed on the forest to the south, from which more warning howls erupted, interspersed with the barking and snarling of dogs.

"The wolves say they are coming," Tamei whispered, "the _enemy_ is here…"

* * *

 _"A good night to you, Matrim din Cauthon Golden Dice!"_

 _The youthful Andorman did not respond, merely raised an absent hand in farewell as he strode away, hefting his pack and leaning on his long walking stick. Raab watched him fade into the Tar Valon night with amazement in his bleary eyes. "What a run of luck!" he exclaimed in wonderment, then turned and headed back to his lodgings, yawning and patting the full purse at his belt with satisfaction. It contained a deal of gold as well as just silver, an unusual state of monetary advantage for the more usually penniless Raab… and it was all down to young Mat. A strange fellow with a thick, west Andor accent that was difficult to decipher, though he occasionally muttered to himself in what sounded like the Old Tongue, angrily denying it if questioned about the habit… and the sort of good fortune with the dice that verged on the mystical._

 _Admittedly, Raab had not much cared for the Andorman at first, after losing several throws and more silver to him at Maiden's Ruin. Even when he changed the game and odds, deftly substituting his own, less than honest dice for his opponent's, Raab_ still _lost! This Cauthon fellow somehow managed to throw the King five times in a row, when he should by rights have ended up with the Dark One's Eyes!_

 _'If you cannot beat them then join them,' was an old adage that had always appealed to Raab, so he had abandoned play altogether and proceeded to follow the Shorebound Matrim around for the rest of the night, buying him drinks and suggesting likely new taverns hosting further games whenever the young man's interest in dicing seemed on the wane… and always, always wagering on him to_ win. _The tactic had certainly paid-off, now Raab had more coin than he readily knew what to do with… doubtless, he would drink and gamble it all away in the next few days, a week at the most, but for the time being, despite his weariness and trepidation at being back in the City of the Witches, he felt on top of the world._

 _As Raab reached the rear door of his rooming house, not wishing to go in the front way as he owed his landlady a tidy sum, he sighed gustily. Games of chance had always been a great weakness of his, possibly the greatest, though he had quite a few bad habits and mild addictions to be honest. Not that Raab ever_ was _particularly honest, of course. It was in his nature to be duplicitous, always had been… what could he do about it? Nothing._

 _"I am who I am," Raab muttered to himself as he made his careful way up the rickety back stairs to his room, bare feet silent on the pine boards which hardly creaked beneath his negligible weight. His wine-addled mind returned inexorably to the strange events of the evening. It yet puzzled him… young Mat had not seemed to even care whether he won or lost, it was as though his mind was on other things, matters of great import. His enormous gambling success seemed to bring him little pleasure..._

 _Raab, who had mostly experienced the worst kind of luck in the course of his troubled life, particularly in the hard years since he had been declared outcast by his Clan, the Takana, could not understand this attitude. Well, the Shorebound were strange folk, after all, who could comprehend them? Not he._

 _Unlocking the door of his room after ensuring that the hair he had stretched between it and the frame was yet unbroken, Raab slipped into the small sleeping chamber with its hard, narrow bed and wobbly table. His dark eyes flicked over the wax-sealed letter lying on that table-top, where it had mostly languished ever since he had arrived in Tar Valon more than a month previously… but he walked quietly past it and rolled onto the bed, lying on his back, fingers laced behind his head, gazing up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. What to do?_

 _The fearsome Aes Sedai with the dangerous twin Warders had charged him with delivering a letter to the White Tower Library, with dire consequences hinted at should he fail in this duty, or worse, abandon it. But after the first week on the Island, when Raab had finally summoned up the courage to venture onto Tower grounds, it was only to discover that the Brown Ajah Sister for whom the missive was intended had left Tar Valon some months before under mysterious circumstances, and had yet to return. Fortunately, as was only to be expected, the Aes Sedai's Warder had accompanied her on this clandestine journey away from the White Tower… Raab had no great desire to encounter his cousin Jabal, or Jabal Gaidin, as it seemed he was now known. On the last occasion that they had met, the deadly Lionfish had been vigorously attempting to kill him, and Raab had barely escaped with his life. He might not have been so fortunate the next time around._

 _Though the very experience of eliciting this information had proved something of an ordeal… after enduring the curses and hurled missiles of the Atha'an Miere Library Sisters, his lowly status as outclan making his continued existence anathema to them, Raab had been waylaid by an Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah, one Rashiel Tamor by name. Without the Library, the Ebou Dari Sister had seized Raab by a be-ringed ear and dragged him to a place of seclusion, where a scowling, moustachioed Warder loitered, touching his sword hilt threateningly whenever the Sea Folk renegade so much as_ breathed. _Raab might have enquired what a Red Sister was doing with a Gaidin protector, but did not dare. In his experience, Aes Sedai asked plenty of questions, but rarely deigned to answer them._

 _Despite his Captain, the Lady Ysmet, swearing him to secrecy regarding his work on her behalf, Raab found himself telling his interrogator everything about the last few months and his activities in that time; his design of the Noblewoman's ship, the Queen Mab, his overseeing the construction of this sturdy vessel utilising purloined Atha'an Miere shipwright crafts, their maiden voyage from the dry-dock at the isolated fishing village on the Shadow Coast to Illian, to take on a full crew. Rashiel Sedai merely listened, pale eyes fixed on Raab, pinning him in place and eliciting the truth to a much greater degree than was usual, but her Murandian Warder did not seem to care for him, scowling darkly throughout the hurried explanation. This was probably due to the fact that he was yet another friend of Jabal's, like the ferocious twin Gaidin, Aebel and Blaek, they who had comprehensively threatened Raab in the Perfumed Quarter of what was fast becoming his least favourite Shorebound City… but for Tar Valon, of course. And what was worst, after questioning him thoroughly, Rashiel Sedai had not given Raab leave to depart, and had certainly not taken delivery of that storm-cursed letter on behalf of her Brown Ajah compatriot… no, she had told him to remain in the Island City until further notice, without troubling to state her reasons. She had then sent her Gaidin, the Lord Dagnon, back to the rooming house with Raab, to ascertain his location… and also, though this may have been at the stern Warder's own discretion, to provide dire threats about not going anywhere else. It seemed that Raab was needed by the Aes Sedai… presumably, should she require another ship built? But Raab did not think so._

 _Raab considered all of this whilst staring sightlessly up at the dilapidated ceiling, since he was much given to dwelling upon his uncertain circumstances, but before long, the deep sleep of the truly inebriated claimed him. In the morning, his recollection of Matrim Cauthon's amazing luck at dice had faded somewhat, but the full pouch of gold and silver Tar Valon marks was still there, proving that it had not all been a dream…_

Raab din Sudim Black Squall stood alone upon the parapet, gazing morosely out to sea, brooding upon the past. Certainly, the night of the fortunate dice had been dream-like, but his existence since reaching this insane Land of Madmen had more resembled a nightmare, from which he had been unable to wake. What was he even doing here? He would never have agreed to come on this ill-omened voyage had he not been coerced by the Aes Sedai… truly, getting involved in the machinations of Tar Valon witches _always_ led to tears! Or, in this case, _Tear._ That was where the manipulative Rashiel Sedai and the forbidding Dagnon Gaidin had gone after the trouble in the White Tower, when the old Amyrlin was deposed, and they had taken the unwilling Raab with them down the Erinin on the _Rivershark_ , worse luck. Still… tears… Tear… Raab's thin-lipped mouth twisted in a sardonic smile as he appreciated the tautology. One day, he planned to write an account of his bizarre and eventful life, and coming up with a neat turn of phrase, albeit by accident, was pleasing to him. He should probably write that one down, before he misremembered it…

Raab froze in the action of reaching for his shabby notebook and pencil, appreciating that whilst he had been neglecting his lookout duty by gazing sightlessly upon the Great Southern Ocean and dwelling upon the ill fate that had brought him here, five figures had been steadily approaching the palisade of the camp and were now too close for comfort. In this dangerous locality, strangers were to be feared and mistrusted, something that Raab had little difficulty in doing. He hastily grabbed the crossbow that the previous lookout had given him, fumbled a bolt into the groove and raised the heavy weapon awkwardly, sighting along its length.

"That's far enough!" Raab shouted at the quintet of unknown personages, "identify yourselves!" He considered a moment, then added loudly; "no, actually, do not bother… I really don't care who you are! Just turn around and walk away, or there'll be _trouble!_ "

The lead stranger lowered the silver-chased chest she was carrying to the sand and stood, hands on slim hips, regarding Raab with large, pale, almost colourless eyes. An amused smile twitched her full lips. "You haven't _cocked_ that thing, sailor-boy," she called out in a high, clear voice, "and the bolt is loaded the wrong way round!" Raab cursed, fumbling with the crank. The tall, russet-haired woman went on, her voice an unhurried drawl; "what were you planning to do with the crossbow, _hit_ us with it?"

The blonde swordsman beside her laughed, the dark, tattoo-faced youth behind did not, and the pair of brown-haired, raggedly dressed men to the side were scowling murderously up at Raab, certainly in no mood for mirth. Raab forgot about the crossbow and stared back at them, mouth falling open in consternation. The other three were still strangers, but looking closer, he definitely recognised _them_ … it was those bloody _Twins_ again!

"May it please the Light, what are _they_ doing here?" Raab whispered. He had eavesdropped on the meeting in which it was decided to mount a rescue of the Aes Sedai held prisoner on the Isle of the Spire, but had not imagined that it would actually _succeed._ Presumably, these dangerous brothers had escaped captivity on their own recognisance, worse luck. Was Shrinalla Sedai free also? Would she punish him for not delivering her letter? Perhaps turn him into a-

" _Raab!_ " spat the Warder on the left, whose arm was supported by a dirty sling.

" _Thief!_ " added the other Warder, disapprovingly.

The woman turned her head, glancing at the twin Gaidin curiously. "You pair of pretty peas _know_ this maladroit fellow?" she enquired, "is he mayhap a friend of yours?" Raab noted with distant confusion that the tall redhead's ears rose to abbreviated points, lying flat against her skull.

"He is the one called 'Raab,' a low Sea Folk renegade…"

"…expelled from Clan Takana for lying and cheating…"

"…he is Jabal's estranged cousin…"

"…and no friend of _ours!_ "

The Twins fell silent, glanced wordlessly at each other, then added simultaneously; "and stop calling us _peas!_ "

The strange woman grinned, her teeth rather sharp, then turned back to gaze up at Raab coolly. "Now that introductions are out of the way, good Raab, I strongly suggest that you open the gate and let us in. I wish to speak with the Da'shain who came here. The Aiel, as you call them."

Raab's dark eyes flicked nervously toward the scowling Twins. The tall woman frowned slightly, then muttered something indistinct to the tattooed youth in what sounded like the Sharan speech, though Raab could not make out exactly what was said. The young Sharan took a measured step toward the palisade and raised a hand. The blonde armsman watched him intently, blue eyes narrowed.

"Open the gate, I say, or Hamadi here will open it for you!"

Raab stared at the outlandish youth, whose skin was even darker than his own, taking note of the swirling tattoos that covered his face. He had seen those before, whilst ineptly trading for silk. "Ayyad?" Raab spluttered, "I… I didn't know they had _male_ ones!"

The woman laughed, an odd, high-pitched, yipping sound. "Of course they do, fool! Hamadi told me all about it on the way here. They have _both!_ Where do you think _baby_ Ayyad come from?!" She conveyed a brief translation of this to the Ayyad youth and he grinned, white teeth flashing in his dusky, decorated face.

Raab hesitated, desperately wondering what to do. If he didn't let these dangerous folk into the camp, the Ayyad would doubtless tear him apart with the One Power after he had finished with the gate, either that or the Twins would violently make-good on their previous threats to his person. Then again, if he _did_ let them in, Captain Ysmet would likely draw her rapier and use him as a pin-cushion! In any event, the decision was made for him… with a loud creaking sound, a section of the palisade began to descend, lowered upon ropes. Raab whirled around and glared down at where Gen was laboriously turning a windlass, the mechanism that operated the gate.

"What are you doing, Gen?" Raab demanded.

Gen did not look up, continued to turn the wooden wheel, singing loudly in a cracked voice; "there's birds that swim and fishes as fly, but don't ask me how, or where, or why!"

Raab blinked. He should have known better than to expect some sort of cogent answer, Gen made the local madmen look like paragons of perfect sanity!

The two big Aielmen standing beside Gen held large, empty buckets. The bigger of the two glanced up at Raab, his green eyes placid. "We go to fetch water, Atha'an Miere," he explained, in his deep voice.

"Gen opens the gate for us," added the other Aielman tonelessly, his eyes on the sand at his feet.

"There are dangerous strangers out there!" Raab warned, "close the burning gate, Gen, you raving idiot!"

Gen cackled and did not obey, continuing to turn the windlass whilst chanting; "danger stranger, danger stranger, danger stranger!"

Raab sighed. When he'd woken that morning, he'd had a feeling that it was going to be one of _those_ days…

* * *

Feir the Fourthborn nodded with satisfaction as the drawbridge-like section of the rough, wooden palisade completed its descent to the sand, lowered on a rope to each side, revealing a passage into the rude camp of what she presumed to be shipwrecked mariners. Such were washed up on the shores of the Land from time to time, they usually did not last long. She directed a final warning stare at the one called Raab atop the parapet; a slight, dark fellow, wiry curls atop his head, golden rings in his ears and shifty eyes that darted about… he had a suspicious demeanour, and would probably bear watching. Or possibly, killing...

Feir started forward, stepping gracefully toward the gateway, leaving the chest that contained the Horn of T'oph where she had set it down.

The Twins noticed.

"What of the Horn, Mistress Feir?" asked one.

"Do we leave it here?" added the other.

Feir smiled, answered without turning around; " _you_ bring it, you pair of peas! I have had more than enough of lugging the damned thing around… and I don't even _like_ musical instruments!"

Thaeus fell in beside Feir, Hamadi following, while the grumbling Twins hefted the heavy chest between them and brought up the rear, Aebel using just one arm, the other being broken. The injury was beyond Feir's limited ability to treat, beyond the rough splint that she had fashioned earliet. But if there was a Healer of some kind in this camp, she intended to see to it that something was done about the break, for by the sound of things, they would need every able-bodied fighter they had to rescue the Aes Sedai and deal with the Laughing God. The latter was something that she had wanted to do for a very long time. Difficult though, she wasn't even sure what the notorious _souvraniene_ looked like…

The vicinity of the camp was marked by numerous footprints and heat-blooms that Feir's keen eyes detected without difficulty, but it would have been much harder to track the Da'shain from the site of the battle with the Hawx to this place… had it not been for the fifth set of prints. The Aiel barely disturbed the ground with their progress, leaving hardly any trail to speak of, but they had had someone with them wearing pointed boots who just blundered along, kicking stones out of place and brushing up against plants, leaving tracks that Feir could have followed with her eyes closed. A trail that had brought them here, to a rough camp opposite an offshore reef upon which a large ship had foundered, its masts and part of the hull yet projecting from the restless waves.

As Feir and the others reached the gateway, two tall men stepped out, carrying empty buckets. Feir examined them curiously. One wore unfamiliar stained white robes, but his companion was clothed in what was unmistakeably the _cadin'sor_ , though grubbier than any she had ever seen before. Even so… impressive height, reddish hair, light eyes… it had been long since Feir had beheld Da'shain, and she felt her heart swell within her chest. She had always held a particular affection for those who kept the Covenant, despite the extreme disparity between their character and hers. On closer inspection, Feir was pleased to note that, unlike the short Aiel fighter she had observed in the boat, neither of these Da'shain bore weapons, for all that they moved like warriors. Perhaps they yet followed the Leaf Way, as had their ancestors? She certainly hoped so…

The larger Da'shain, the one in the robe, lowered his buckets to the sand and gazed calmly at Feir and her companions as they stood before him. The Aiel wearing the _cadin'sor_ simply stayed still, retaining his buckets, eyes downcast.

"Gerom!" Thaeus greeted him, "it is good to view a familiar face…"

The towering Da'shain inclined his head gravely. "I see you, Thaeus Desiama." He glanced at the Twins. "I see you also, Aebel Feruile and Blaek Feruile. It is well to know that you have escaped your captors. The Aes Sedai are free in addition?"

The Twins shook their heads, somewhat red-faced from their heavy, silver-chased burden, which they set down with evident relief.

Gerom's passive, dark-green eyes moved first to Hamadi, then returned to Feir. "A Sharaman, marked on the face like one of their fearsome Wise Ones, though male… and also…" he shrugged his massive shoulders, "I know you not, Lady… but you seem as _Vron'cor_ , there is something of the Age of Legends about you."

Feir nodded approvingly. "Correct! Well met, good Da'shain! Do you and your fellow yet keep the Covenant?"

Gerom eyed the other Aiel, who raised his meek, light green gaze to examine Feir without curiosity. "Well, Ruon?" Gerom rumbled, " _do_ we keep the Covenant, _Duadhe Mahdi'in?_ "

Ruon shook his head slowly. "I do not. The Covenant was broken, long ago. It cannot be remade." His voice was flat, toneless, like that of someone who believed himself to be already dead. "All I know is that I am no longer Aiel, though I yet wear the _cadin'sor_ to remind me of that which once was. I do not know _what_ I am now. Life is merely a dream, after all… I would that I could wake from it, to some new existence." On that note of finality, Ruon turned away and paced slowly up toward the trees above the beach.

Gerom watched him go, then returned his attention to Feir. "Ignore him, he is depressed," he remarked. "For myself, I am self-sworn to peace in battle," he further explained, "but as for the Covenant, who can say? I would wish to see _Vron'cor_ again, to ask him what I should do."

"Well, I'd rather like to see him too," Feir commented, adding; "you see, he's my _Brother!_ "

Gerom blinked slowly. "I was not aware that the Nightwatcher _had_ a sister… the stories do not tell of it. But then, I have heard _Vron'cor_ speak of his two brothers, also Heroes of the Light; the big brother and the blind brother, I have seen a statue of the one and a portrait of the other… and the tales do not mention them either."

"I _am_ his Sister, the Fourthborn, _Feir_ by name!" Feir scowled. "Do you doubt my word?" she demanded, frostily.

Gerom shook his large head. "Not at all. Your eyes, your ears… your teeth, also… clearly, as the Nightwatcher, you are not quite human. Did you also sleep long since the Last Age?"

"Of course I did!" Feir snapped, "how old do you think I _am?_ Foolish Da'shain!"

Gerom nodded sagely. "Yes, you do not much resemble _Vron'cor_ , but you have his manner, his mode of speech… I shall take you to see our Society Leader as was, Cohradin. Perhaps he will know what to do." Gerom considered a moment. "Probably not, though."

Feir's arched russet brows furrowed. _"Cohra... din..?_ There is another Da'shain Aiel named… 'Brother of the Erotic Dance?"

Gerom smiled faintly. "Indeed. Be sure to call him that when you meet… it will be _amusing_." The big Aiel glanced down at the empty wooden buckets at his feet, then gave one a kick, sending it sailing away across the sand. "I shall carry no more water," he muttered, "I grow weary of it." Gerom turned and started down the beach, skirting the palisade. "Come, Nightwatcher's Sister, Lord Whitecloak… this way."

Feir glanced at Thaeus, who shrugged. "I suppose that we had best go with him," he suggested.

Feir frowned. "What do you know of this Gerom fellow?" she hissed.

"Well, I do not really understand why he is wearing that strange gown, and I have never seen an unarmed Aielman before, but he has always seemed like the most sensible of the Shaido… surprisingly well-read, for a savage."

"Hmm…" Feir glanced at Hamadi. " _Wait here, handsome!_ " she told him, in his own, liquid language, " _do try not to go mad and kill everyone!_ "

Hamadi grinned and shook his head solemnly.

Feir and Thaeus turned and hurried after Gerom, whose long strides had taken him some distance away by this point.

"What of us?" the Twins demanded, at the same time.

Feir looked back at them over her shoulder, grinning her feral, sharp-toothed grin; "pick up that chest and go into the camp, pretty peas in a pod! I'll be back by bedtime to tuck you in and read you a story!"

The Twins frowned, glanced at each other, then sighed, stooped and hefted their burden once more. With Hamadi helping, they lugged the chest containing the fabled Horn of T'oph through the gate. In the west, the sun was beginning to sink below the distant horizon. Night was falling.

* * *

It was early evening and the air had turned chill. Ellyth pulled the blanket closer about her, all but lulled to sleep by the slow beat of the drum down on the oar-deck. Shrina _was_ asleep, leaning against her shoulder, snoring softly. Ellyth sighed. She had shared quarters with her Green Ajah friend on numerous occasions over the years; inn bedrooms, private residences, tents, the occasional barn, as well as just plain sleeping under the stars when nothing better offered itself. For all that time, Shrina had flatly refused to accept that she snored! It had kept Ellyth awake countless nights, and was doing so now.

To the other side of Ellyth, Renn was conversing softly with Dara, mostly in the Vulgar, but occasionally the Old Tongue as well as the melodic speech of Shara could be heard. It seemed that some sort of a language lesson was going on, the studious young Brown Sister learning the spoken dialect of the Ayyad woman's strange land. Ellyth rather envied Renn her gift for gaining knowledge as easily as a sponge soaked up water. She herself had to forcibly apply every ounce of her intellect to acquire further wisdom, such as when she obtained the rudiments of navigation and trigonometry in order to locate upon a map the mysterious _ter'angreal-_ box within which Naythan had slept his long sleep.

Waking the dormant Hero of the Age of Legends had easily been the most important action Ellyth had ever performed, a cause to end all causes, and her life had not been the same since. It had certainly become a lot more dangerous…

The galley was travelling slowly east, they had entered an enormous bay some time ago, which was gradually narrowing to an inlet, though still wide enough that the shores to either side could barely be made out. Ellyth glanced at the masked male-channelers sitting opposite, intent gazes fixed on the prisoners. They never seemed to blink, and they definitely never seemed to sleep, either. Carefully, Ellyth extended her senses, testing the edges of the Shield that kept her powerless. She pushed and probed at it with her mind, attempting to find some weakness that she could exploit to free herself…

"Stop that!"

Ellyth jumped, and glared up at the young man in the red mask who had approached silently on bare feet. He stood over her, and though she could not see his face, she got the impression that he was amused. She tore her gaze away from his smoothly-muscled bare chest and glanced at his hands, tattooed with Sea Folk sigils. Presumably, he was, or had been, Atha'an Miere… but did they not maroon their male-channelers upon barren islands? Shrina had mentioned something about this uncivilised practice, once. It would seem that he had escaped this cruel fate. Whatever his derivation, the masked youth at least seemed better disposed toward the prisoners than his fellows, and had provided them with blankets when Dara complained of the cold.

"How did you know?" Ellyth enquired, coolly.

"That you were trying to break your Shield, Aes Sedai?" The male-channeler shrugged. "I can sense _saidar_ , and other things besides, tis a Talent of mine. The Laughing God uses my skills to hunt down witches, when he doesn't have other tasks for me."

Ellyth frowned. The local female-channelers might just be wilders erroneously claiming to be Aes Sedai, but they were still her Sisters, in a way. All women who touched the True Source were, Dara for example. Ellyth thought of Arachnae Kirikil and revised her opinion… with the exception of Darkfriends, naturally.

"So what do you think it was?" the Sea Folk madman enquired, seemingly in the mood for a discussion.

Ellyth considered ignoring him, but decided not to. She might be able to glean some useful information and besides, she was bored. "I presume that you are referring to the phenomena that occurred earlier today, yes?" The enormous channeling of _saidar_ far to the north had continued for roughly an hour, then had abruptly ceased. It had not resumed. The Atha'an Miere youth nodded. Ellyth shrugged. "I truly have no idea what it might have been. But I suspect that Dara is correct, and you also, whatever your name is. It was undoubtedly something to do with the weather."

"In the Age of Legends, tis said there were powerful _ter'angreal_ that could control the climate of the entire world…" The young male-channeler sounded speculative, but then a note of irony entered his voice. "Oh, and my name is _Piper,_ by the way. Not my original prefix, of course, but the God gives us all new titles when we take service with him."

Ellyth inclined her head. "I am the Lady Ellythia of House Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah."

Piper performed a graceful yet mocking bow. "A member of the Shorebound Nobility breathing the same air as we poor madmen?! Truly, I am honoured…"

Ellyth chose not to react to the insolence, instead prompting; "you mentioned some sort of a weather _ter'angreal?_ I have an interest in such artefacts…"

"I am sure that you do, your Ladyship. My people have a legend of something called 'the Bowl of Winds' that might fit the bill… though it was lost to us a long time ago. But such devices have a way of turning up in the most unlikely of places."

"They certainly do," Ellyth agreed, thinking of some of the unusual locations in which she had discovered ancient lost _ter'angreal._

Piper gazed up at the sky for a long moment. When he spoke, he sounded thoughtful. "The weather has changed, the rains are finally coming. It may take a while, but nothing can stop it. Can you feel it?"

Ellyth shook her head. "I cannot."

"I _can._ "

They both glanced at Dara, who had concluded her lesson with Renn for the time being. Both young women were staring at Piper. He stared back.

"Something untoward was adversely affecting the climate, I have been sensing it for some time," Dara continued, "that has been amended by whatever was done today. It is, I think, a good thing."

"The Dark One's touch," Piper commented, "that's what the God told us, anyway. The Last Battle is coming, the Forsaken walk abroad in the land, and the seals on the Father of Storm's prison are failing… the closer we get to _Tarmon Gai'don_ , the more _Shai'tan_ will be able to affect reality. Changing the weather was just the start."

"You seem to know a lot about the Dark One's plans," Renn observed.

Piper chuckled. "Oh, _I_ don't. I know nothing! I merely repeat the words of the Laughing God. Praise him!"

" _Praise him!_ " the other red-masked individuals within earshot echoed.

"I expect it _was_ the Bowl of Winds that the Aes Sedai and Windfinders used," Piper mused, "that or some other similar _ter'angreal_ …"

"Speaking of _ter'angreal_ ," Ellyth mentioned casually, "those bronze torcs that you and your fellows have..?"

Piper eyed her flatly. "Fishing for information, Aes Sedai? Be careful what you catch!" But then, he touched the metal neck ornament he wore reflexively. "They are all copies of one that the God had when first he came here, a long time ago. I don't know where he got it, he never speaks of his life before he arrived in _Aile_ _Souvraniene_ and we're all too scared to ask!" He shrugged. "The torcs are intended to keep the Taint at bay. Of course, they don't work quite so well as the original _ter'angreal_ , and to be honest, that never functioned particularly effectively either…" Piper giggled, an unnerving sound. "Every now and then, one of the boys succumbs to the madness and the rest of us waste no time in dealing with him!"

Ellyth was not attending to this addendum, was focused on one word in particular… " _Copies?_ There is one amongst you who can actually reproduce _ter'angreal_ , duplicate them?"

Piper nodded. "Why, yes. Drummer, a friend of mine, does it in fact. A _good_ friend." One of the eyes in the red-mask winked at Ellyth. "He's in Larcheen, perhaps you'll meet him, if he's not too busy. The God keeps him hard at work, constructing all sorts of devices."

Ellyth stared. "Your confederate can actually _make_ various _ter'angreal?_ " It beggared belief, no-one had possessed this arcane skill since the Age of Legends.

Piper nodded. "Of course, did I not say so? He's been making them for years. Drummer wasn't very good at it at first, they rarely worked properly, but with the right encouragement, he got better."

"That is an incredibly rare skill," Renn observed, "or rather, an extinct Talent."

"Not any more!" Piper responded, "you Aes Sedai would be most surprised at some of the things we can do, down here in the far south… perhaps we'll visit this White Tower of yours one day, provide a few demonstrations…" He glanced toward the bow of the galley. "Ah, here we are. Finally. The _Bridge._ "

Ellyth looked and her eyes widened with disbelief. A gleaming, white span made up of lacy girders and struts stretched across the channel, linking either side of the wide inlet… it had to be more than a mile in length, she estimated. It grew in size as the galley approached, looming impossibly high as they passed beneath. Why, it made the one at Whitebridge look like a children's toy! And beyond the immense bridge structure, another relic of the Age of Legends awaited them; a vast, ruined city clustered on the hills above the bay. A myriad of fallen Palaces, toppled towers and riven domes, fashioned of dark, gleaming volcanic stone, half-tumbled into rubble but still retaining a decayed grandeur. Countless empty windows, like the eye sockets of an enormous assemblage of grinning skulls, stared malevolently at them as the galley was rowed steadily beyond the impossible Bridge.

"Larcheen," stated Piper, simply.

Ellyth, Renn and Dara rose to their feet, gazing upon the shattered metropolis.

"Home!" Piper added, and chuckled.

Shrina rose also, yawning, joining her fellow prisoners in viewing their grim destination. Her eyes widened at her first sight of the ancient ruins, though she did not notice the Bridge, which by now lay some way behind them. Renn tapped her on the shoulder and pointed; Shrina turned to stare at the enormous, gleaming span. She gasped.

"Ah, so you are awake, cousin," Piper commented, eyeing Shrina drolly.

Shrina scowled at him. "Stop calling me that, brigand!" she snarled, "I'll not take insults from a sneaking little coward who hides his face from the world!"

"I hide nothing!" Piper protested, sounding offended.

"Then take off that ugly mask! Show us who you _are,_ Sea Folk renegade!"

Ellyth watched cautiously, wondering if the Atha'an Miere channeler would rise to the challenge.

"Have a care, Aes Sedai," Piper hissed, fixing Shrina with his dark gaze, "I could be hideously disfigured beneath this laughing, leathern face… noseless even, my rotting skin covered in lesions… do you _really_ wish for me to reveal my true features to you?"

"Yes!" Shrina snapped, still scowling, "I'm sure I've seen worse!"

"Shrina…" Renn muttered warningly. Ellyth put a restraining hand on her friend's arm, but Shrina shrugged it off. Dara watched with interest.

Piper glanced toward the steering deck, but there was no sign of the leader, Harper, he had gone below some time ago. So, he raised a tattooed hand to his face and swiftly lifted the red, leather mask, perching it hat-like atop his curly head. The prisoners stared, surprised... Piper was hardly disfigured, quite the opposite, in fact.

Ellyth considered, not particularly objectively, that the strange young Sea Folk fellow could be the most beautiful youth she had ever seen, prettier than the Twins, even. Large, almost black eyes shone beneath finely arched brows and long lashes, an aquiline nose descending to full lips, chiselled cheekbones… he might be an obnoxious kidnapper and a dangerous male-channeler to boot, but this Piper was certainly easy on the eye! Shrina seemed to concur with this opinion, her mouth fell open as she beheld the stunning young man.

Piper smiled, perfect teeth flashing in his handsome, dark-skinned face. "Well, my Lady? Do my looks disgust you? Am I yet a coward, who conceals his face from his enemies?"

"Yes! I mean… no… that is to say…" Shrina fell silent, then pointed at the left side of Piper's face. "But why in the Waves are you wearing _that?_ "

Ellyth peered at Piper more closely. He had numerous golden rings in his ears, and a thin chain worked of the same precious metal connected the largest ring in his left lobe to a similar ring that pierced the side of his nose. Several small, gold medallions hung from the chain, catching the failing light of the setting sun.

Piper pouted. "Why shouldn't I wear it? I happen to _like_ jewellery!"

"Ohhh…" Shrina responded, colouring a little.

Ellyth exchanged a meaningful glance with Renn. Jabal had once told them that amongst the Atha'an Miere, men who preferred the intimate company of other men rather than that of women, often wore the distinctive ornaments of Sea Folk females, sometimes dressing in womanly apparel also. Dara laughed softly.

"What a waste…" Shrina muttered.

Piper put his tattooed hands on slim hips and regarded them challengingly. "I have several fine finger-rings also, but I'm not allowed to wear them whilst on duty!" he revealed, "what of it?" He adopted a pensive air. "Perhaps it is the reason why I can sense _saidar_ … I have always had a certain affinity with the opposite sex."

Ellyth sighed. Truly, men were strange creatures! But then, to be fair, so were women… only less so, naturally.

"Piper!" roared a commanding voice, "put your bloody mask back on, now!" It was Harper, ascending the ladder from below. His eyes glared through the holes in his own red mask, his tone at odds with the smiling mouth etched into the leather.

Piper frowned sulkily, and covered his face once more. "There, see what you've done now, _cousin?_ " he snarled at Shrina, "you've only gone and got me in trouble!" With that, Piper turned and stalked away. "At least you know that your virtue is safe from _me_ , ladies!" he called snidely over his shoulder, as he made a dramatic exit.

They watched Piper flounce away, then sat back down on the deck before they could be rudely ordered to. Silence reigned for a long moment. As usual, Shrina broke it; "the most comely man I have ever seen and presumably, he doesn't even desire women!" she remarked, regretfully.

"Tragic!" Renn agreed.

Dara snorted, contemptuously. "We of Co'dansin do not distinguish so," she revealed, "we take our pleasure where we find it." She winked at Ellyth, who blushed.

"But why does the pretty fellow keep calling you 'cousin,' Shrina?" Renn demanded, "tell us! No more excuses, tell us _now!_ "

"I can't!" Shrina wailed, "I _wish_ that I could, I really do, but it isn't allowed. You lot aren't Watchers Over the Waves like me! It is a secret only for the Do Miere A'vron to know!"

Renn blinked. Dara sneered. Ellyth considered a moment, then spoke up. "Well, there is _one_ solution to this dilemma, yes?"

After some intense arguing back and forth, it was finally decided…

"Raise your right hands!" Shrina commanded. Ellyth and Renn, after a moment's hesitation, did so. "You too, Dara!" Shrina ordered.

Dara frowned. "I really do not care about your silly secret," she protested, "could I not just put my fingers in my ears whilst you tell it to them?"

"No! You might read my lips, Sharan sneak! _Do it!_ "

Scowling, the intricate tattoos that covered her face writhing slightly, Dara reluctantly raised her right hand, emulating Ellyth and Renn.

Shrina nodded, satisfied. "Alright then. Repeat after me: May it please the Light, I solemnly swear…"

"May it please the Light, I solemnly swear," they chanted dutifully.

"…to uphold the Law of the Hawkwing, faithfully Watching for his Return…"

"To uphold the law of the Hawkwing, faithfully watching for his return."

"…should I fail in this Duty, may I be given to the salt and never know Peace…"

"Should I fail in this duty, may I be given some salt and never know peas!" The three oath-takers grinned at each other.

Shrina scowled. " _Peace_ , not peas! Take this seriously!"

" _Peace!_ "

"That's better. Nearly done, this is the last bit: over the Waves, I cast my Eye…"

"Over the waves, I cast my eye."

"…World without end, World and Wheel without end."

"World without end, world and wheel without end." They sighed with relief, lowering their hands.

Shrina then made a squiggly sign in the air with her serpent-ringed finger. "There," she told them, "you are now all honorary Watchers Over the Waves, even _you_ , Dara!"

" _Wonderful_ ," Dara drawled, "do I get to wear some sort of special _badge?_ "

Shrina ignored the sarcasm and leant close, lowering her voice conspiratorially, much as she did when about to impart some particularly choice piece of gossip, Ellyth considered. Despite themselves, they moved nearer to Shrina, even Dara, to better hear her words, which were pitched low so that their male-channeler captors sitting opposite would not overhear. Not that the unblinking masked-men particularly seemed to care…

Shrina paused for effect, then began to speak; "the luscious flipskirt Piper calls me 'cousin' because he and I sort of _are_ cousins, in a way. Those tattoos on his delicate hands are the sigils of the Tolaman, the only _Atha'an Miere_ Clan to ever serve the Hawkwing." Shrina paused again, then added in revelatory tones; "my _ancestors!_ " She sat back, evidently enjoying the looks of surprise on her two friend's faces and conveniently ignoring Dara's expression, which signified profound boredom.

"So, the Watchers..?" Renn began to say.

"Are descended from Clan Tolaman. The _Do Miere A'vron_ are the ones who stayed behind when the rest of their Clan went with the Hawkwing's vast fleets to conquer distant lands."

"They conquered _nothing_ when they trespassed upon the territory of Co'dansin," Dara pointed-out smugly.

"Shut-up, Dara! For the more than thousand years of their existence, the Watchers Over the Waves as they became known have slowly lost touch with their Sea Folk roots, becoming virtually Shorebound, remaining within the fortresses that the Hawkwing gifted to them, watching for his return. Eventually, only the Towers in Falme were left, the last bastion of the _Do Miere A'vron_. _That_ is my heritage." Shrina drew herself up proudly.

"Thank you for that," Dara commented, "may I please _cease_ being a Watcher now, barbarian?"

"Absolutely not! You swore an oath. And don't call me a barbarian!"

"Wait!" cried Ellyth, "Tolaman… _Tolamani_ … your family name, Shrina!"

Shrina nodded complacently. "It means that I am a direct descendant of the lost _Atha'an Miere_ Clan."

"If they are lost, how do you explain young Piper?" Renn enquired.

"I don't," Shrina responded, with a disapproving sniff. "That smirking pretty-boy is a great disappointment to me, and probably halfway mad into the bargain!"

Now, certain things finally made sense to Ellyth; the way that Shrina and Jabal had always seemed a little wary of each other, the _Atha'an Miere_ accoutrements of the _Little Watcher_ , the Do Miere A'vron vessel they had sailed aboard… and even earlier than that, on the first leg of her long voyage to Tar Valon as a girl, the hostile treatment Shrina had received from the Sea Folk crew of the Darter they travelled upon, hotly reciprocated by the young Falman maiden. Clearly, there was antipathy there, and a great secret had been kept for more than a millennia. And Shrina was _terrible_ at keeping secrets!

"So you are actually _Atha'an Miere?_ " Dara posited, stifling a yawn.

Shrina scowled and shook her head vehemently. "No, of course not! We Watchers no longer have anything in common with our forebears, our motives have become nobler and purer than merely sailing aimlessly about and trading for silk…"

" _Silk!_ " Dara shouted unexpectedly, "always with the flaming silk! I am sick of hearing you barbarians blather on about-"

"I don't _believe_ it!" Renn cried. The others looked at her in surprise. The young Brown Sister had risen to her feet and was gripping the rail of the galley, staring fixedly up at the louring sky. Ellyth rose too and looked; there was an avian speck up there, approaching rapidly. "It _can't_ be!" Renn moaned.

"What is wrong, Renn?" Ellyth demanded, worried for her friend. Shrina and Dara had ceased arguing for the time being and also got to their feet, eyeing Renn curiously.

"How did it _find_ me?" Renn wailed, "I'm on the other side of the burning ocean!"

The shape in the sky resolved itself into a big, predatory bird, homing-in on the galley purposefully. In due course, it landed on the rail beside Renn, gripping the wood with powerful talons, preening its feathers with a large, cruel beak. A yellow eye was fixed on the Brown Ajah Aes Sedai it had crossed the Sea of Storms and the Great Southern Ocean to find. It might have been her imagination, but Ellyth fancied that there was a hint of reproach in the stern gaze.

Renn turned to Ellyth, Shrina and Dara. "Look!" she exclaimed, gesturing at the large, self-important looking bird-of-prey, "it's _him_ again! It's that bloody _eagle!_ "


	10. Chapter 8 : The Bottle

**Gleeman Bob writes:** _well, it is now 2018 & here is Chapter 8 of itLotM, a bit earlier than planned but I wanted to post it in time for the Feast of Lights... or New Year's Day, as it was once known, back in the primitive First Age. it did not take so long to write, since a big flashback in the middle was already waiting to go... I wrote it years ago, back during the posting of He Sleeps Under the Hill, and although there wasn't room in the already WAY too long book to include it, the scene was tentatively titled 'What Happened to Rashiel?' as we all know, the character of Rashiel Tamor, Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah, is introduced in Chapter 5 of HSUtH, where she and her old adversary Ellyth trade barbs & insults during an obligatory & gratuitous nude bathing scene. after the capture of the False Dragon Mazrim Taim, Ellyth & Rashiel (on better terms now) go their separate ways. Rashiel later reappears at Tar Valon in Chapter 8 of HSUtH, where she visits Renn in the Library... despite having a nicer hairstyle, she is wearing scruffy men's clothing, has Bonded herself a Warder (which, being a Red Sister, she really isn't supposed to do) and is covered in welts, having been cruelly whipped with the One Power. so, what happened to Rashiel in the intervening period? you are about to find out... read on!_

 _but first, in order to properly celebrate the Feast of Lights, I thought it might be nice to have a... QUIZ! everyone loves quizzes, right? what? they don't? oh... well, let's have one anyway! there are various allusions, clues and hints scattered throughout both HSUtH & itLotM that I am not sure if the reader has picked up on, so it is time to test your knowledge and have some fun at the same time! if you wish to take part, then you will find the requisite 13 Questions at the end of this chapter, feel free to Private Message me with any or all of your answers. the quizzer who gets the most correct will win the MYSTERY GRAND PRIZE! however, if there is a tie, then the two high-scorers will be required to duel to the death for supremacy, in my special Arena of the Shadow, using poisoned Aran'gar & Osan'gar daggers! I know it sounds harsh, but there is only one prize, and I am sure you will agree that this is the fairest & most sensible way of deciding who gets it... so, let the contest commence!_

 _Walk in the Feast of Lights!_

* * *

Ranim the Darkfriend assassin, once but no longer of the Travelling People, knelt on the too-green spongy grass, breathing deep, his frigid mind in turmoil. He did not particularly relish new experiences, had a conservative streak to his dark nature that made him prefer the reassuringly familiar over the troubling tides of change… and yet he had just been unwilling party to the strangest event of his short but violently active life.

Ranim forced himself to look up, cold blue eyes scanning the clearing around him for enemies, his hand moving automatically to the dark, _Thakan'dar_ -forged knife at his belt. A score of his men, Darkfriends all, were scattered about the vicinity; an open space bordered by tall and unfamiliar trees. The air was humid, sultry, hotter than it had been back on the coast of the Dead Sea, from whence they had departed but a few scant minutes ago… minutes, but also an entire _year_ , if the irritating Raven-man from the Shadow Library had surmised correctly. But the _heat_ … clearly, they had travelled far indeed.

The charred skeleton of a small ship lay nearby, Ranim could just about equate the scorched craft with the one in which the White Tower witches and their pet Dragonspawn had escaped, for all that it was practically unrecognisable now. And of course, behind him stood the Portal Stone, the ancient artefact that had brought them here when linked with the other Stone that his Dread Mistress, her silly 'prentice and two of the Shadowrunning, channeling Aielmen had activated with their powers.

Ranim eyed the Portal Stone with distaste, trying not to think on the visions that had tormented him whilst voyaging through it. He very much hoped not to have to do so again and clearly, he was not the only one. Close by, Big Vaale crouched upon the ground, sobbing loudly as he clawed at the grass with large, muddy hands. Ranim's lip curled with contempt. The huge, dangerous Darkfriend was supposed to be a hard man, an unremitting killer, and yet there he was; crying like a baby! He should be ashamed of himself… Glancing around, Ranim noted that most of his men were in the same sorry state; blubbering and shuddering, though some just knelt or sat quietly, staring at nothing with shocked gazes.

"I am _sorry_ , father… I did not _mean_ to… you know that I would _never_ harm you…" Big Vaale was moaning, in between the sobs. Ranim scowled. The bloody great oaf was supposed to be his _lieutenant_ , his trusted subordinate… what sort of an example was he setting for the others? Ranim took three swift, stalking steps and kicked Big Vaale hard in the ribs, causing the massive, heavily-bearded Darkfriend to grunt with pain and surprise as he rolled onto his back. Wide, bloodshot eyes stared up at the slim, colourfully-clothed assassin.

" _Control yourself_ , Vaale," Ranim snarled, "cease your weeping and whining, or I shall soon require a _new_ lieutenant." He touched the hilt of his dark blade for emphasis. It was difficult to tell what Big Vaale thought of this rough treatment, since a heavy, black beard covered most of his face, giving him a bestial appearance, especially when combined with the bulky furs that he wore. Ranim did not care for beards; he thought them unhygienic and carefully shaved each morn, though in all honesty he did not yet really need to...

Big Vaale's dark eyes slowly cleared as awareness of his surroundings seeped into what passed for his consciousness… then, they narrowed slightly. Ranim allowed him _this_ much defiance, but no more. Well, he _had_ kicked him, after all. It had felt satisfying to do so, like chastening an ill-behaved dog. He had never really liked dogs, even well-behaved Tinker dogs, they were unhygienic too. As a boy, when still amongst the wagons of the _Tuatha'an,_ Ranim had taken a mastiff puppy into the woods to a place of seclusion, and then brutally killed it with a sharp stone. Just to see what it felt like, to kill something. It had felt good. _That_ had been a satisfying experience, also… the first of many.

Big Vaale sat up and sniffed loudly, rubbing at his broad nose. He glanced around. "So it worked, then?" he muttered, his voice deep and rough.

Ranim nodded. "Presumably. We are now in this 'Land of the Madmen' that the Sea Folk pirate warned us of, I would suppose."

"Better than the bloody Blight," Big Vaale growled, getting to his feet. Standing, he towered over Ranim, but there was little doubt which of the two was the more dangerous. "The Dread Mistress did not say ought of the _nightmares_ …" Big Vaale mumbled, patting himself to check that his various concealed weapons were still there.

Ranim shrugged. Over and over, he had lived different lives, followed differing paths, but all had led inexorably to the Shadow. He found this recurrence of destiny eminently reassuring, though it had been a decidedly unpleasant experience, reliving certain events. One that he had _no_ wish to repeat. He would _swim_ back to the Westlands, if he had to! "I think me the Dread Mistress did not _know_ ," Ranim conjectured, "she has done many things in her long life, but told me that she has never yet travelled through a Portal Stone."

Big Vaale stared at Ranim, eyes wide. "But Mistress Kirikil knows _all!_ " he objected.

Ranim sneered. He did not particularly _like_ Vaale, the man was a lumbering brute with vile habits and he _stank_ … despite being a surprisingly competent assassin who usually preferred to kill his victims with his powerful, bare hands; strangling them to death. Especially women… But then, Ranim did not particularly like _anyone_ , himself included, and the obvious awe and respect Vaale held for his Dread Mistress was an attitude he could only approve of. Ranim believed that Vaale was some sort of a Borderlander, though the big man never spoke of his origins… the ex- _Tuatha'an_ assassin did not really care, in any case. It was enough to know that Vaale, with whom he had worked before, was almost as proficient at the art of murder as he. Though less clinical in the way he went about it… well, each to his own.

Chuan came stumbling toward them, a lanky, dark-skinned man with a long-sword sheathed at his back, a perpetual half-smile twisting his lips. He sketched a salute at Ranim, since he had once been a soldier and yet had military habits ingrained into him. Chuan was a former Defender of the Stone, in fact, still wearing the faded, striped remnants of his old uniform… he had been cashiered for attempting to touch the Sword Callandor, whilst inebriated. As well as for a variety of other, less pleasant offences…

"Burn my soul, but that was _nasty!_ " Chuan commented, to no-one in particular, "I kept living different lives and always ended up _dead_ each and every time!"

"Everyone dies," Big Vaale pointed-out, morbidly.

"Some sooner than others," Ranim added, giving Chuan a cold stare.

If Chuan was concerned by this veiled threat, he gave no sign of it, continuing to smile faintly. The man was utterly fearless and also, Ranim suspected, not quite sane. But he was a skilled killer and knew how to obey an order, which was more than could be said for most of the sorry specimens under Ranim's reluctant command… he would so much rather have come here on his own, perhaps with Vaale and Chuan and a couple of the others who shared their competence, but leaving the rest of this rabble behind. The Dread Mistress had insisted on an incursion in force, however, so there it was.

Ranim disapprovingly regarded the score of Darkfriend brigands that filled the clearing. Clothed in furs and rough woollens, armed with various lethal blades, they were evidently in a bad state, though some were beginning to recover from the ordeal of travelling through the Portal Stone, picking themselves up and taking stock of their surroundings.

"Vaale, Chuan, make a head-count, see if there is anyone missing…" Ranim glanced at the edge of the clearing, his eyes narrowing. "I am going to talk to the Aielman." A tall figure, clad in dusty, grey and brown _cadin'sor_ , was crouching over something at the tree-line. Ranim approached on soundless feet, but five paces away, the _shoufa_ -wrapped head turned, revealing a red veil covering nose and mouth. A soft voice acknowledged him;

"Lost One."

Ranim scowled, then noticed what the Samma N'Sei was examining and moved closer. A dead Trolloc, wolf-muzzle gaping wide in a death-scream, in an advanced state of decomposition. Ranim wrinkled his nose with distaste. The only thing that smelled worse than a live Trolloc was a _dead_ one…

The Eye Blinder rose, and turned to Ranim, empty green eyes staring above his veil. "This Shadow-twisted was slain with Fire," he reported, voice flat and toneless, "not ordinary flames, but those of the Power. _Saidin._ "

"The raven saw a madman," Ranim commented, "if he is still about, I wish for you to deal with him, Shadowrunner."

The Samma N'Sei shrugged. "That is why I am here," he agreed, levelly. His inhuman eyes scanned the ground whilst Ranim took notice of further dead Trollocs and the still corpse of a headless Myrddraal… the lost patrol. Useless creatures, Shadowspawn, the Dread Mistress should have sent _him_ the first time.

"The tracks are faint," the Eye Blinder muttered, moving about the edge of the clearing, Ranim following, "but it would appear that the _souvraniene_ went that way…" he pointed east, "…and there were others, three I think, who came to this place from the same direction, then travelled north…" the Samma N'Sei paused, his blank eyes moving over the ground at his feet, "…at least, two of them did… one was carrying something heavy, the prints are deeper, and…" he trailed-off, eyeing Ranim expressionlessly.

"Yes?" Ranim prompted, impatiently, "you were saying..?"

"We are being watched," the Samma N'Sei whispered, "eyes are upon us, in the forest to our backs." Ranim began to turn his head. "Do not _look_ , Lost One! You will alert them!"

Ranim scowled, but obeyed. "So what do you suggest, Shadowrunner?" he enquired, out of the corner of his mouth.

"My name is Edaryne, not Shadowrunner."

"Well, _my_ name is _Ranim_ , not _Lost One!_ "

"Yes… Ranim. I suggest that we wait for the hidden watcher to depart, then follow them into the trees and wake them."

Ranim frowned, puzzled. "But what if they are not asleep?"

"What?"

"You speak of awakening them, Edaryne, but there is no guarantee that-"

"Wake means _slay_ , Ranim."

Ranim blinked. "Oh. Kill them? Yes, I see. But I should like to ask them some questions first. Tell me, Edaryne, do you know how to torture prisoners?"

"Of course."

"As do I. But it has been a while. Can you use your channeling to elicit true answers?"

"After a fashion, though they will never be the same again when I have finished with them."

Ranim shrugged. "That does not matter. Are they still watching us?"

Edaryne shook his cloth-swathed head. "I no longer sense eyes upon me, they are gone now. Come, Ranim." Without another word, the Eye Blinder turned and moved stealthily into the trees, pulling a short-hafted spear from the harness at his back.

Ranim followed silently, drawing his dark blade from its sheath, feeling the customary excitement that imminent blood-letting always engendered. It was the only pleasure he knew, or cared to know. He had lain with a Tanchico courtesan once, to see what it was like, but the experience had not come close to the sheer delight of murder. Though it had been enjoyable enough to kill the girl, after the disappointing act was concluded, so he supposed that she had earned her coin after all… just not in the way she had anticipated.

Ranim knew that he did not possess much in the way of feelings, but he had _some_ , at least. Whereas, he rather doubted that the Samma N'Sei leading the way into the forest felt anything at all, anymore. Edaryne had been Turned to the Shadow, and as far as Ranim was aware, the experience left very little inside a person that could still be classed as human… assuming that Aiel savages even counted as human in the first place?

As they crept further into the shadows beneath the tall trees, which effectively blotted out much of the bright sunlight, Ranim's wariness increased. Over and above Edaryne sensing that they were being watched, his own instincts were indicating near danger, and since he did not have much of an imagination, he had learned to trust such warning signs as reality rather than make-believe.

Edaryne abruptly ceased his forward progress, balanced on the balls of his feet, spear poised. Ranim was not tall enough to look over the Aielman's shoulder so, frowning, took a soundless step to the side to see what he saw. Up ahead, what was left of a Draghkar had been bound securely to a thick tree-trunk, marks of violent interrogation on its twisted body, torn wings drooping, head slumped forward.

A young woman, pale-skinned and barefoot with short, dark hair, was leaning against the tree, unconcernedly examining her fingernails. She wore an overlarge shirt and trews of frayed, black cloth, was of middling height and seemed altogether unremarkable.

Ranim and Edaryne exchanged a wordless glance, then moved forward silently. The strange girl immediately raised her head and stared at them. Ranim's steps faltered; she had blank, soul-less eyes and there were fresh blood-stains around her thin-lipped mouth. Clearly, whoever she was, she was not to be underestimated.

"Take her!" hissed Ranim.

Edaryne raised his free hand, squinting at the girl as she moved casually toward them. Ranim expected something to happen, her progress to be impeded by some working of the One Power, but nothing of the sort transpired. The Eye Blinder let his arm drop to his side, limply. When he spoke, he sounded almost shocked… the first outright emotion Ranim had heard in his voice. "My weaves… I make attempt to wrap her in bonds of Air, but the flows _melt_ when they touch her," Edaryne mumbled confusedly. The girl smiled slightly as she advanced on them, a predator stalking prey. Ranim was more accustomed to it being the _other_ way around. Edaryne tugged down his red veil and bared his sharp, filed teeth.

"It is a good day to die!" the Samma N'Sei shouted, then leapt forward, plunging his spear-blade into the pale girl's chest. This did not concern her overmuch, no blood issued from the wound… she simply reached up with inhuman speed, placing a hand to either side of her attacker's head, and broke his neck easily with a sickening snap. Edaryne collapsed bonelessly to the ground to lie curled and twitching at the girl's bare feet. Then, he lay still.

Ranim felt absolutely no sense of loss at his comrade's demise, he had been planning to kill the Eye Blinder himself in any case, once the Shadowrunner's usefulness was at an end… rather, his regret was reserved for himself in failing his Dread Mistress, since he was in all probability about to die, his mission unfulfilled. Ranim watched with fascination as the young woman – though he did not now think that she _was_ a woman – calmly plucked the spear from her chest and tossed it carelessly away. Through the hole in her shirt, Ranim saw torn, pale skin meld together, leaving no trace of a wound. The inhuman girl gazed down at the dead Samma N'Sei for a moment, nostrils flaring as she seemed to inhale something, then she looked up, an expression of elation flickering over her blank, pallid features.

Knowing that it was almost certainly a doomed effort, Ranim lunged forward, stabbing with his _Thakan'dar_ -forged blade. His opponent flowed to one side, avoiding the swift and deadly attack with contemptuous ease. Ranim rapidly slashed at her throat, but she slipped easily beneath the blade. She was smiling again now, and Ranim felt himself becoming angered. He was _no_ object of amusement, he was _not_ to be toyed with by this smirking monster! Ranim feinted at her eyes, then forward-rolled and swept his dagger upwards in a lightning-fast disembowelling stroke. It was a move that he had practiced assiduously, winning no few desperate knife-fights with the technique… but this time, a small, pale hand slapped down on his wrist, gripping and wrenching with abnormal force, whilst a bare foot lashed out and kicked him extremely hard in the abdomen.

Ranim landed on his back beside Edaryne's still corpse, eyes wide, winded… whilst the monster that resembled a girl stood over him, holding his prized blade, examining it with apparent interest. She spoke for the first time, her voice as blank as her eyes; "forged at _Thakan'dar_ … quenched in the blood of an innocent… I have not seen one of these in a long time…" She conversed in the Vulgar speech, tinged with an accent he could not place. She looked up, fixing Ranim with her inhuman gaze. "You are an assassin of the Shadow, boy?"

Ranim scowled. He did not appreciate being called 'boy.' As he was yet too breathless to speak, he merely nodded.

"As am I," the creature holding his dark knife commented, "we are both of us Shadow-sworn assassins… though you are but a pale reflection of _me._ " Without another word, the monstrous young woman stooped beside the Eye Blinder's corpse, slashed open his bared throat with the _Thakan'dar_ dagger and, dropping to all fours, fastened her eager mouth over the wound. Ranim struggled to sit up and watched as the creature greedily drank the blood from Edaryne's still-warm body, to the accompaniment of nauseating, wet, suction-sounds. The sight did not overly concern him, he had seen worse, though not by much… but he found the noises distasteful. Blood-sucking… now _what_ did that make him think on? Something that the Dread Mistress had spoken of..?

Meal complete, the monster raised its head from its kill, licking the gore from thin lips with a long tongue. Dark, empty eyes met the shocked gaze of Ranim… no, not quite empty… there was a spark in them now, engendered by bloodlust, a look of satisfaction on its pale face that had not been there before. It was then that Ranim abruptly realised what it was that he must be facing. "You are a _Gholam!_ " he wheezed, clutching at his bruised belly.

The Gholam blinked slowly. "You have heard of my kind?" it responded, tonelessly.

"Not I… my Dread Mistress has… you must be the one she sought."

The Gholam sat back on its heels, considering. "Interesting. And I thought knowledge of the Gholamin all-but lost. Except amongst the Chosen." It pinned Ranim with a disturbingly blank stare. "This Mistress of yours; is she Lanfear? Graendal? Semirhage?"

"No, none of them, though she aspires to the rank of Chosen…" Ranim was well aware that it was his Dread Mistresses' dearest desire to be numbered amongst the favoured elite of the Great Lord of the Dark, to be rewarded with the immortality that she craved, and he wished her well of it. "Her name is Arachnae Kirikil, an ancient and potent wielder of the One Power, and wisest of all Friends of the Dark."

The Gholam shrugged. "Never heard of her."

"My Dread Mistress sent me to this place to seek out her enemies, three Tar Valon witches and the Dragonspawned creature that serves them."

The Gholam tensed. "The _Dragonspawn_ , say you? Now _him_ , I _have_ heard of." There seemed to be something almost avid in the Gholam's manner now… Ranim felt his interest in the deadly creature increase. He struggled to his feet, watching the Gholam warily as it, too, rose smoothly. "What know you of me, boy-assassin?" the Gholam demanded.

Ranim scowled again, but answered readily enough; "I ken that you are Shadowspawn of a rare kind, created during the War of Power… that you subsist on blood, and cannot be harmed with an ordinary weapon… that you stand immune to channeling…"

The Gholam nodded approvingly. "You are passing knowledgeable for one of this debased Age," it observed, patronisingly. "It seems unlikely, since you are yet alive, but have you ever encountered a Gholam before?"

Ranim shook his head curtly. "No. I think me that you are the very last of your fell kind, Gholam."

Now it was the Gholam's turn to shake its head. "Not so. One of my Brothers yet exists, somewhere far to the north. I sense him, as he doubtless senses me. He awoke a time ago, presumably from a Stasis Box, as did I."

"I _saw_ this Box," Ranim revealed, "within a hidden place of the Age of Legends, set beneath a great statue."

The Gholam nodded. "The Cenotaph," it muttered, frowning slightly.

"That place was destroyed in its entirety, by some great working of the One Power."

The Gholam smiled thinly, then wiped the blood from its mouth with the back of its hand. "This news pleases me. I have ill memories of the time I dwelt there. It sounds as though the accursed Traitor's _saidin_ -well was unleashed, that self-destruction was initiated."

Ranim had no idea what the Gholam was talking about. "What now?" he asked quietly. The Gholam gazed at him for a long moment, and the young assassin was well aware that his life hung in the balance. Then, the Gholam arrived at a decision, and passed Ranim his blade back, hilt first. He took the knife, wiped it clean of Edaryne's blood on the side of one of his garish, crimson knee-boots and returned the dark weapon to its sheath.

The Gholam was examining him, head tilted slightly to one side. "Why are you dressed like that?" it wanted to know.

In addition to the boots, Ranim wore sky-blue britches and a bright yellow shirt, whilst a colourful coat striped in green and orange, combined with a red-and-white polka-dot neckerchief, completed his wardrobe. Feeling self-conscious, Ranim answered; "I was once of the _Tuatha'an_ , the Travelling People. I yet garb myself as they, for reasons of mine own."

"You look ridiculous," the Gholam remarked rudely, then turned and began to stalk further into the forest. "Come, boy, I have something to show you," it declared, as it did so.

Glaring at the Gholam's back, Ranim followed it into the trees. He rather detested the creature, for all that its nature was undoubtedly compelling, but knew that his Dread Mistress would be pleased with him… he had found her Gholam! She might be able to unleash it upon the Aes Sedai of the White Tower after all!

A few spans away, the Gholam and Ranim came to a small glade. A thickset man lay on his back, a wooden club studded with what looked like shark's teeth resting near to his outstretched hand. He was dead, very dead, his throat torn open… Ranim recalled that the Gholam had blood besmirching its lips _before_ it had fed on the unfortunate Edaryne, and assumed that this was the reason why. Nearby, a tall woman was slumped against a fallen log; she had been gagged, as well as bound hand and foot, with strips of her own, torn clothing; a buckskin kilt and jerkin. Dark eyes glared up at them; a scalp-decorated lance, snapped in twain, lay discarded to one side. For some reason, both corpse and prisoner had their faces painted, in a stylised, feathery design, making them resemble fierce birds of prey. Though in the Gholam, they had encountered something infinitely fiercer than they.

"Who is this?" Ranim wondered, idly turning the captive woman's head with his boot, to better examine her decorated face. Her eyes stared defiance and hatred up at him.

"A scout," the Gholam explained, "one of the Hawx. Descendants of the High King's lost Eastern Army, they came here a long time ago, and I came with them. All part of my then-Master's plan."

"Why have you not killed her?"

"I was saving her for later. Do _you_ wish to question the prisoner?"

Ranim shrugged. "Does she know anything that you do not, Gholam?"

"I doubt it."

"Well, in that case…"

After he had cut the scout's throat and the Gholam had drained her dry, an action that had made him feel slightly like a butcher, Ranim regarded the rare Shadowspawn assassin curiously. "Who is this Master that you mentioned?" he wondered, "is it… Ishamael?"

The Gholam shook its head, mouth and chin bloody once more. It certainly was a messy eater… "Not he, though I served the Betrayer of Hope briefly once. My last Master amongst the Chosen was Aginor, he who made me. I was sent to assassinate the one the Light-sworn fools called 'the Defector,' the Traitor Aes Sedai, Chaime Kufer, but he…" the Gholam trailed-off and scowled. "Never mind! Suffice it to say; I was captured, suborned, reconditioned… my present Mistress is the War-Construct Feir the Fourthborn, nominally Daughter to the Traitor and Sister of the Dragonspawn. It is _she_ who commands me in all things… and I would have it otherwise!"

Ranim raised his reddish eyebrows. So the Dragonspawn had kin, did it? An interesting development. Family were a weakness that could be exploited, after all. "Perhaps my Dread Mistress can aid you in freeing yourself?" Ranim suggested, "there are none alive, but for the Chosen, who know more of the Shadow's dark arts than she… what has been done may be undone."

The Gholam considered a moment, then shrugged. "I have little to lose," it muttered.

"And everything to gain," Ranim pointed-out smoothly, congratulating himself on his keen diplomacy. With the Gholam at her command, the Dread Mistress might well become Chosen. And then, Ranim knew that she could finally reward him with that which he desired above all else… the blessed strains of the Great Lord of the Dark's divine Song.

"Betray me and I will make you beg for death, boy," the Gholam warned.

"I do not fear death and my name is 'Ranim,' not _boy!_ "

The Gholam smiled coldly. "Very well… Ranim." It raised a thin eyebrow. "This is the Land of the Madmen, not a Troubadour Show! You will stand-out like a _Cohra_ -dancer in a Purity Temple in _that_ loud garb… you had best consider a change of clothing." Ranim nodded sulkily. The Gholam began to head back to the main clearing. "Let us examine the Portal Stone. There may be a way to send a message to your sagacious Mistress through it."

"Doubtful!" Ranim commented, hurrying after the Gholam, "given that you killed and drank the blood of our only channeler!"

"There is more than one way to skin a cat," the Gholam responded mysteriously. It came to a halt, considering for a moment, then enquired; "will your Mistress _mind_ that I drained dry her Shadow-sworn Da'shain?"

"Not remotely," Ranim responded, "she has more Samma N'Sei at her disposal, and besides, the Shadowrunner was most probably a spy." _What is a Da'shain?_ he wondered, but did not trouble to ask. They resumed walking, though as they came to the place where the dead Eye Blinder and the deader Draghkar languished, Ranim called out; "wait!"

The Gholam paused and turned, expressing impatience. "What is it?"

"Hold still." Ranim plucked the spotted kerchief from about his neck, wet it with his water-bottle and carefully wiped the traces of blood from the frowning Gholam's mouth and chin. "There. That is better…"

Meanwhile, Big Vaale and Chuan stood looking down at Rill, without much in the way of sorrow. The slender man lay upon his back, hands raised, stiff fingers clawed, an expression of profound dread set upon his rigid face.

"What do you think killed him?" Big Vaale wondered, not particularly caring.

" _Fright_ , by the looks of it," Chuan speculated, smiling faintly.

At the other end of the clearing, the rest of the Darkfriends stood assembled, impatiently awaiting the order to move out. An order that could only be given by one man.

Chuan glanced concernedly at the trees into which Ranim had ventured with the Aielman, and not for the first time. "The Terrible Tinker has been gone quite a while now," he commented.

Big Vaale laughed, a harsh bark of mirth. "Call him _that_ to his face, I _dare_ you!"

"No chance!" Chuan refused, grinning, then added; "think we should go look for him?"

Big Vaale shrugged his broad shoulders. "Mayhap…"

But then, the former _Tuatha'an_ assassin whom they obeyed implicitly stepped silently from the forest, though instead of the red-veiled Aielman, Ranim now had a slight, pale young woman with short, dark hair, walking sinuously beside him. The score of Darkfriend brigands stared as the two of them crossed the clearing, Big Vaale and Chuan most of all.

Ranim did not trouble to make introductions as they reached the pair of Shadow-sworn killers, just stood looking down at the cold corpse dispassionately. The newcomer's blank eyes were fixed on the Portal Stone. "What happened to Rill?" Ranim asked, quietly.

Big Vaale answered; "which we found him like this. Seems that whatever those visions were we saw whilst coming through the Stone, Rill just couldn't take 'em."

Ranim pursed his lips slightly as he considered this. "Is anyone else dead?"

"No, Boss," answered Chuan, "all present and correct."

"Some are a bit the worse for wear," Big Vaale added, then scowled darkly, "but they'll tend to their duty or I'll know the reason why."

Whilst they provided their report, both Darkfriends were yet peering curiously at the pale girl. She ignored them, continuing to stare at the ancient stone artefact.

"Remove Rill's garments," Ranim commanded, "we are of a size, and I need a change of clothes, apparently…" He eyed the Gholam pointedly, but this went unnoticed, then muttered; "I just hope that he didn't soil himself, dying folk often do…"

Big Vaale sniffed, hairy nostrils flaring. "Trust me, he didn't."

"Always was very considerate, was Rill," Chuan commented, going down on one bony knee beside the corpse, beginning to unlace the shirt.

"Uh… Boss?" Big Vaale enquired.

"Yes, Vaale?"

"What happened to the Eye Blinder?"

"It was quick. He did not suffer, overmuch."

"Oh…"

Chuan glanced up. "Can I ask a question too?"

Ranim sighed. "If you must, Chuan."

Chuan pointed at the pale, slim young woman. "Who is _she?_ "

Ranim very rarely smiled, but he did now, lips twitching as he eyed his new-found companion complacently. She eyed him back, with dark, soul-less eyes. "Oh… _her_ … she is a _Friend._ " His cold smile widened perceptibly. "And she's on _our_ side."

* * *

 _O to you who read this missive I now make my bold request;_

 _and so turn ye not to northwards, steering neither east nor west_

 _but continue on your passage to the sere and sunlit south_

 _though do heed this wilful warning from the Gleeman's guileless mouth;_

 _that this Land is filled with Madmen who do wield the Dragon's Power_

 _yet I humbly beg for succour in my drear and darksome hour!_

 _I was stranded with my Lady when our ship was sadly lost_

 _seek for us beyond the coral reef 'pon which our craft was tossed_

 _you will know you've made right landfall when you spy a sunken mast_

 _projecting from the waves where lionfishes make repast!_

 _My fellow shipwrecked mariners do hope to eke be saved_

 _and brought straight home un-murdered, neither eaten nor enslaved!_

 _So sail steadily to windward 'til this barren strand ye reach_

 _and I'll meet you with a glad heart on an arid, sandy beach_

 _why, with golden harp and silver tongue I'll welcome you with song;_

 _should ye rescue poor Roth Blucha then you'll not have done him wrong!_

 **message discovered in a bottle, Great Southern Ocean;**

 **translated from High Chant into the Vulgar Script**

 **by Kivan din Rieta Sting Ray; deck-hand of the** _ **Stormchaser**_ **& Scholar of Clan Waketa**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight * The Bottle**

Red-eyed Cohradin of the Da'tsangs clambered wearily from out of the deep pit that he had spent most of the afternoon digging, his dark, frayed robe much besmirched with what was, appropriately enough, wet sand… for was he not of Wet Sands Hold? He had been gone from his home in Shaido lands for a long time now, _how_ long he was not entirely sure. Distantly, Cohradin speculated about his goat… was it eating the correct kind of desert grasses, and not the wrong kind that gave it the debilitating goat-bloat? Had it made a sad mess of his Roof, as it so often did? Hopefully, the ill-behaved goat had not trespassed within Gerom's library, to chew upon his prized books…

Gerom was a placid fellow, except in the Dance of Spears, for all that he was now cravenly sworn to Peace in Battle for the rest of his boring life, but he had become quite angry on the last occasion that Cohradin's goat (it did not have a name) left teeth-marks in a rare volume, and had threatened to wake it from the Goat-Dream if it ever transgressed in like-fashion again. Gerom did not make idle threats, and the goat had avoided him assiduously from then on, its behaviour becoming almost bearable for a brief while.

Cohradin gazed vacantly down into the pit he had dug, breathing deep, his back resolutely turned to the disconcerting Ocean, which he did not care to look upon. His black robe, the mark of the Da'tsang, flapped about his legs in the fitful breeze. Again, he wondered about the large chest that he had found the garment in. Piled with other items salvaged from the foundered Wetlander ship, stacked behind one of the huts, it had mostly contained women's apparel… though not the raiment of either the Captain or the Aes Sedai of their camp, the dresses and shifts and other things had all been too big.

Cohradin had no idea that he was wearing the velvet morning-gown of the Queen Mab's second-mate, lost to hungry lionfish in the wreck, an eccentric fellow much given to transvestism. This was probably just as well.

Hefting the spade he had borrowed without asking from a pile of similar tools, Cohradin sighed loudly, then began to slowly fill the pit back in. His pride at declaring himself Da'tsang in order to assuage the shame of his ancestors breaking the Covenant remained strong as ever, he was yet pleased with himself for having thought of so clever a way of meeting his enormous _toh_ to the Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends, even though they were all presumably long-dead and would never know about it. Even so… carrying heavy rocks up and down hills, helping the peculiar Gen look for particular kinds of sea-shells, digging deep pits in the sand and then filling them in again… it was all rather tedious. _Especially_ searching for the foolish shells… he would need to think of some new useless labour to engage in, and soon. Invention had never been Cohradin's strong suit, however, perhaps Gerom would provide some sort of suggestion? Probably not, though, the big Gai'shain was doubtless still annoyed with him, for so intelligently winning the contest of honour.

"Cohradin!" At the deep-voiced shout, Cohradin looked up, wiping sweat from his brow with the hand that was not clutching the purloined spade, leaving dirty streaks of damp sand on his skin. Think of someone and they then appeared, it would seem… Gerom was striding down the beach toward him, his white robes looking as incongruous as ever.

"Who is this _Cohradin?_ " Cohradin enquired, truculently. "I am Da'tsang, and now have no name."

Gerom frowned as he reached the pit, peered down into it, then frowned further. "Do you persist in this foolishness, Cohradin?" he demanded.

"I do!" Cohradin answered boldly, then scowled. "And it is _not_ foolish, I merely meet my _toh_ , as you should also, Gerom. Come, my brother, put on the black robe and join me in back-breaking, worthless toil… we shall be Despised Ones together, our honour restored!"

Gerom shook his large head. "Always do you take things too _far_ , Cohradin," he observed, chidingly, "I would that old Sadora were here, to beat some sense into you with her heaviest stick."

Cohradin winced at the thought of the terrifying ancient Wise One of their Hold, then sneered. "Do you not have some water to carry, Gai'shain?" he asked rudely, adding; "leave me be, I have a Da'tsang's work to do…" Cohradin inexpertly shoved the spade into the pile of sand at his side, then blinked in surprise as Gerom snatched the implement from him, breaking the haft over his knee and hurling the pieces into the waves. "That was the only spade, Gerom!" Cohradin protested, "I mean; that was the only spade, Gai'shain! I shall have to dig with my _hands_ now!" Well, he was, or had been, _Sovin Nai_ … but could a former Knife Hand also be a Spade Hand? _Was_ there such a thing, even? He did not think so…

Gerom ignored Cohradin's ire. "Someone has come who wishes to speak with you."

" _Whom?_ "

"Her." Gerom turned his large head, nodding toward the camp.

Cohradin looked. Two people were walking down the beach towards them, taking the path left by Gerom's deep footprints in the sand. One was clearly the brother of the missing Aes Sedai, Ellythia Desiama, he who had absconded and been sought by the Nightwatcher. Cohradin could not remember what the fellow's exact name was, he had always been bad at recalling such things. And the other person… was no person at all! Cohradin's mouth fell open. He gasped, eyes wide, even the red one.

The blonde Lord Whitecloak and the tall young woman with the mane of russet hair skirted the pit and stood before Cohradin and Gerom, expectantly.

"So, this is the other Da'shain?" enquired the female stranger in a high, clear voice. Lord Whitecloak crossed his arms and stood still, watching.

"This is he," confirmed Gerom, gesturing at Cohradin helpfully.

"Hello there, Cohradin," greeted Lord… _Thaeus! That_ was it…

Cohradin did not respond, continuing to gape at the woman. She frowned slightly. "Is he _alright?_ " she wondered, "can't he _talk?_ " She waved a pale, long-nailed hand back and forth in front of Cohradin's blue and red eyes. "Hello? Anyone in there?"

" _Foxwoman!_ " Cohradin croaked.

The red-headed woman with the large, almost colourless eyes was frowning _less_ slightly now. " _I beg your pardon?_ "

"I mean… Foxwife!"

"Fox _what?_ "

It all came flooding back to Cohradin in a torrent of bizarre memory, something he but rarely thought of… his _oosquai_ -fuelled trespassing into the Forbidden City of Rhuidean to seek the Jenn Aiel, his passing through the twisty red door-thing… and within, the place that did not make sense, inhabited by… Foxpeople! And here was one of them, _right there_ , looking at him as though he were mad! Well, perhaps he was… this _was_ the Land of the Madmen, after all…

" _What_ did you call me?" the Foxwoman was demanding.

"Foxperson!" Cohradin managed to say, then pointed at the Foxwoman to illustrate that he meant _her_.

"Cohradin, this is Feir, the Nightwatcher's _sister_ ," Gerom explained, patiently. He turned to the Foxwoman. "Forgive him, he is not quite himself…"

"Vron'cor _has_ no sister!" Cohradin refuted, then declared; "this red-maned Foxwoman is an impostor if she claims to be his kin! I have seen her kind before, in… in…" He trailed-off, eyeing Gerom cautiously.

"In _where_ , Cohradin?" Gerom asked, in his deep tones.

"Rh… dnn…"

"I did not hear that, my brother. Speak louder."

"Rhuidean…" Cohradin muttered, extremely reluctantly.

Gerom raised his eyebrows. " _Rhuidean?_ You went _there?_ But you are no Sept Chief! You did not have a Wise One's permission!" He shook his head slowly back and forth, disapprovingly.

"Well, I went there anyway!" Cohradin snapped, "I did not intend to, it just sort of happened… I was _very_ drunk, and in much pain!"

Gerom's accusatory expression cleared. "Of course… the notorious night at Chaendaer when you wore a borrowed dress and angered Sulin of the Taardad with your ill-conceived bridal-wreath jest and she then beat you into a whimpering pulp!"

"Yes, _that_ night, my brother, and I would ask that you _not_ speak of it again!"

"Which, the entire night or just the part about Sulin?"

" _Sulin_ , of course! I sincerely hope that she is one day made Gai'shain to a whole Fist of Shadow-twisted and they then force her to do their vile and stinking laundry! Pray do not mention her name to me ever again!"

"I will not…" Gerom frowned thoughtfully. "So, you went to Rhuidean, which is forbidden-"

"I _know_ this! _This_ is something that I know!"

"-and there you claim to have encountered more people who resemble the Nightwatcher's sister, who now stands here glaring at you?"

"No! That is wrong! The Foxpeople were _not_ in Rhuidean itself, but dwelling inside of the red door made out of stone that stood close by to Avendesora!"

Gerom gaped. "The Tree of Life? You _saw_ it? Why, that is-"

" _Excuse me._ " Cohradin and Gerom glanced at Feir. Her large eyes were cold and she was baring her sharp teeth slightly. Thaeus Desiama made to put a restraining hand on her slim arm, but then thought better of it. "Much as I _hate_ to interrupt the fascinating reminisces, good Da'shain, I wish to make one or two points…" She directed a warning stare at Cohradin. "Firstly, I _am_ the Sister of _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ , and if you call me an impostor again, witless Brother of the Erotic Dance, then I shall punch and kick you until I grow weary, then tip you into this grave that you have so thoughtfully dug for such a purpose and proceed to fill it in, whether or not you are still breathing!" Feir made a soft, growling sound, then continued; "secondly; I am _not_ a foxwoman or a foxwife nor a foxperson or whatever other strange thing your addled mind _thinks_ I am, I happen to be the War-Construct Feir, Fourthborn in the Light, and… and I…" Feir blinked her large, pale eyes, clearly recalling something. "Hold! Did you say something about a _red door_ , lack-witted Da'shain? Fashioned of _stone?_ "

"Why, yes!" Cohradin replied promptly, not wishing to be buried alive.

"The Eelfinn Doorway!" Feir exclaimed, excitedly, "it must be! Where is this 'Rhuidean' place of which you speak?"

"It is in the Three-fold Land," Cohradin and Gerom answered, more-or-less at the same time.

"Oh. I don't know where that is. Can you be more specific?"

"It is where we Aiel live," Gerom explained.

"Our place of testing and punishment," Cohradin added. He was starting to think that this rather severe female named 'Feir' might be the Nightwatcher's sister after all, she certainly spoke and behaved as he did… and though she definitely resembled a Foxperson, the hair and ears in particular, her skin was not so pale as theirs nor her teeth quite so sharp. She seemed much less inhuman than they, in fact. Though, like Vron'cor, she certainly was _not_ human, that much was clear.

"So… you have been to _Sindhol?_ " Feir enquired of Cohradin, giving him an appraising look.

"If that is the name of the confusing place with the many round windows and doors, then yes, I have visited there," Cohradin stated.

"And they let you _leave?_ " Feir demanded, in tones of disbelief.

"Yes indeed! They greatly wished for me to go, in fact… I had drunk much _oosquai_ and behaved poorly, upsetting the Foxpeople in many ways…"

Feir shook her head slowly. "You must be unbelievably lucky, Erotic Dancing Da'shain… either that, or the Creator must quite _like_ you!" Cohradin was not sure how to respond to this, so said nothing. "And they are _not_ called 'Foxpeople,' they are named 'Eelfinn,' or just 'the Foxes' if you prefer brevity."

"Foxes… like in _Bili beneath the Hill!_ " Thaeus Desiama chimed-in.

Feir eyed him neutrally. " _Gwili,_ " she corrected.

Cohradin blinked, recalling the odd fellow who had interceded with the Foxpeople on his behalf. "Gwili… that is what the man in the fox-mask called himself, I remember now."

Feir's pale eyes snapped back to Cohradin. "You _met_ Uncle Gwili?"

Cohradin nodded. "He is your father-brother? Well yes, I certainly met him, though I do not recall much that we spoke of… I think that it was _he_ who did all of the talking, in fact, for I was feeling enormously unwell by this point. But it was this strange masked fellow and none other who made the Fox- I mean, the Eelfinns, grant me my three wishes!"

Feir blinked slowly. "You confuse me, peculiar Da'shain," she muttered, "and I am not oft confused! Are you perhaps from _my_ time? You have a _seia'dor_ optical-implant, which I presume are no longer to be found in this primitive Age, and you claim to have met Gwilimin Leafwright, Aes Sedai, who walked in the world more than three millennia gone… did you too sleep in a Stasis Box? Despite appearances and behaviour to the contrary, are you a Da'shain of the Age of Legends, as they now call it?"

Cohradin shook his head firmly. "The magickal red eye was in the Nightwatcher's Father-Hold, your brother gave it me to replace the one I lost when the big… yes, well, never mind _that_ … as for this box fashioned of heartstone which you mention, I should say that such an enchanted sleep is not for a lowly _algai'd'siswai_ … that is to say, not for a lowly Da'tsang such as me, only a Hero of Legend might endure it…" Feir's eyes narrowed. "Or a Heroine of Legend, such as the sister of Vron'cor!" Cohradin added, hastily and ingratiatingly. Feir nodded, looking pleased.

"What were these wishes of yours, my brother?" Gerom rumbled, curiously.

Cohradin shrugged. "Oh, I asked the Foxfolk for three special spears with which you, Chassin and myself might kill the Dark One!"

Feir stared. "Are you _insane?_ " she demanded, incredulous, "you're not supposed to request anything to do with the Shadow! That's incredibly dangerous! And _why_ do you refer to yourself as a 'despised one?' That seems odd…"

"Light! _What_ is going on?" Thaeus unexpectedly shouted. They all looked at him. "Foxes, boxes, red eyes and special spears… _and_ bloody Bili beneath the flaming Hill, let us not forget! I don't understand _any_ of this! I am _confused!_ "

Feir smiled and patted Lord Whitecloak affectionately on the cheek. "There, there, milord, such esoteric subjects may not be for you to concern yourself with. Perhaps you had better go back to the camp and arrange some accommodation for us? It's getting late and I expect that we shall be staying the night…"

"With pleasure!" Thaeus agreed, exasperated. He turned and stomped away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

"Remember," Feir called after him, "I want a room _without_ a fire!" She returned to Cohradin. "What did you do with those spears that the Foxes gave you?" she asked, quietly.

Cohradin frowned. "If I show them to you, Nightwatcher's sister, then you must promise _not_ to laugh at me!" he entreated. Feir nodded solemnly. Cohradin then reached beneath his black robe, taking something out of the belt-pouch he wore beneath. He extended his hand silently. Feir and Gerom peered at the three miniature metallic spears that lay upon Cohradin's palm. The finger-length weapons appeared to be made out of some unknown, shiny metal, engraved with miniscule script, which had always been too small for him to attempt to read.

" _See?_ " Cohradin growled, incensed, "the mischievous Foxfolk _tricked_ me! How can one possibly slay Sightblinder with these… these… _children's toys!_ "

"Who is Sightblinder?" Feir wondered.

"That is an Aiel name for the Dark One," Gerom explained, whilst shaking his head disappointedly over the absurdly small spears. "We also call him Leafblighter."

" _And_ Wormlover!" Cohradin added, spitefully.

"Only _you_ call him that, Cohradin. No other Aiel does."

"Well, Shai'tan _does_ love worms! Not the small, innocuous Wetlander worms, I mean the enormous, purple kind, that live in the Blight and devour people whole!"

"Sounds a bit like an immature _jumara_ to me," Feir muttered absently, looking closer, her lips moving soundlessly as she deciphered the tiny ancient writing scribed onto the diminutive weapons. Then, she looked up at Cohradin, smiling mysteriously, her sharp teeth flashing in the waning sunlight. "Toy spears, _Cohra_ -dancer?" she commented. All Feir would further say on the matter was; "you might be surprised!"

* * *

Rashiel Tamor, Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah, lay on a dirt floor in the darkness, sobbing quietly to herself. It was not so much the agony she currently endured that made her weep, mere pain was something that she could ignore with the same equanimity as heat or cold, an act of mental discipline that had come easily to her in the later training she had received at the White Tower. No, it was what was to come _next_ that froze her soul with horror, that made Rashiel lose her grip on the powerful self-control that had been a key facet of her character since long before she had been delivered to Tar Valon against her will, when first she began to channel. Even as a young child growing up in the slums of the Rahad, she had never cried and rarely expressed fear or sadness, no matter the harsh exigencies that the hard life of the poorest strata of Ebou Dari society laboured under. Perhaps it was the added factor of keeping her father's terrible secret that had made her so guarded against evincing emotion?

But now, covered in welts from head to toe, clad only in the tattered remnants of a bloody silk shift, Rashiel gave vent to her feelings of pain, remorse and abject terror at the fate which her captors and tormentors had in mind for her. Though she did so quietly; uttering only muted moans of anguish, mental as well as physical, whilst straining her ears to attempt to hear what was being said in the upper room. Even at her most vulnerable, Rashiel yet retained the self-possession to concentrate on the voices on the other side of the thin skirting of wooden panels above, separating her place of captivity from the much larger main hall of the hunting-lodge.

There were Aes Sedai of the Black Ajah up there, thirteen of them. And after stripping and whipping Rashiel with lashes channeled of Air, using the One Power to torture their victim, the leader of these vile Darkfriends, a hateful woman named Gyldan, had taken great pleasure in telling her prisoner that a like number of Myrddraal had been sent for and that they would soon arrive. Thirteen Black Sisters, thirteen Lurks… it could mean only one thing. Rashiel was to be Turned to the Shadow. Her screams on being told this had eclipsed any sounds of pain she had uttered whilst being cruelly whipped, and the foul Black Ajah women had laughed uproariously, taking dark pleasure in her terror, Gyldan loudest of all…

Rashiel's pale eyes narrowed. Gyldan Navorov, a Red – no, _Black_ – Sister from Saldaea, strong in the Power… and one of Elaida's cronies, part of her inner-circle. Was Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan of the Black Ajah too? Rashiel would not be surprised to learn that this was the case. And what of the sadistic Galina Casban, who had beaten her Block out of her as a Novice? The Head of the Red Ajah seemed a likely Black candidate also… why, _every_ Black Sister up there, awaiting the Myrddraal, was ostensibly a Red. Was her Ajah riddled with Friends of the Dark, as the snobbish Ellythia Desiama had always suspected?

Distantly, Rashiel wondered if Ellyth and Atual Gaidin had found whatever it was that they were looking for, yet another _ter'angreal_ presumably, out to the west… how she wished that she had gone with them, instead of journeying to Maradon with the others, taking the captive False Dragon Mazrim Taim on the first stage of his long journey to Tar Valon and the White Tower, where he would be Gentled, rendered harmless. As harmless as such a murderous, manipulative man could ever be, at least. Gentled… as Rashiel's father had never been, the Red Ajah came for him too late… too late for her mother and younger brothers, also.

Recalling the worst, most painful event of her life seemed to lessen the anguish Rashiel was currently immersed in… groaning, she rose to her hands and knees and crawled over to the wood-panelled wall. Leaning against it, using it as a support, she dragged herself to her feet. Rashiel pressed her ear to the base of the skirting, but though the low drone of voices from above rose a little, she still could not make out what was being said. Nothing good, presumably. The Halfmen were on their way; when they came, a horrific ceremony would be enacted and Rashiel would be Turned to the Shadow. She would cease to exist, in any meaningful sense, there would just be an evil _thing_ , looking out at the world through her eyes. Her soul would be lost forever, and any hope of rebirth into some new existence gone too.

Rashiel's jaw firmed with resolve, her eyes narrowing decisively. _Not_ if she could help it… she would _kill_ herself first! Her vision had gradually adjusted to the gloom of the small root-cellar that was being used for her cell, dim shafts of light filtering in through cracks in the ill-made panels. Had Rashiel been able to channel, she might have summoned a _saidar_ -light, but she had been comprehensively Shielded from the Source. The weave was not being actively maintained and had been carelessly left tied-off… but she was too weak to attempt to unravel it and in any case, the Black Ajah would only have sensed her doing so and used this as an excuse to punish her further. Not that they particularly seemed to _need_ an excuse… they tortured their victims because they enjoyed it, not for any actual _reason_.

By the low light, Rashiel examined the contents of the cellar… in addition to several sacks of potatoes, turnips and parsnips, there seemed to be something else there, over in the corner. A wadded pile of torn clothing… what remained of her gown, stockings and cloak. Yet unable to walk, Rashiel slid down the wall to her knees, then crawled over to the rags, which had been ripped from her with flows of Air… she doubted that she would be able to actually _wear_ any of them. Rashiel did not give a fig for modesty, but despite the mental effort of blocking out the chill, it was nonetheless accursed _cold_ in the cellar. So presumably, the forest hunting-lodge that she had been taken to was still in Saldaea…

The last thing Rashiel had any clear recollection of was, after that final heated argument with the roving-eyed little lecher Lord Wakime, going out onto the night-time streets of Maradon to walk and clear her head. The avenues had been misty and silent, largely empty of people. But then; rapid footsteps behind her, Rashiel beginning to turn, the sensation of someone channeling… and she had known no more. She had awoken with a sore head in this lodge in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Sisters whom she had once considered comrades, who now stood revealed as her worst enemy. They had tormented her in mind, body and spirit, then thrown her into this musty cellar to await her dark fate.

Feverishly, Rashiel dug through the rags, formerly her clothing; the shreds of maroon silk that had been her favourite, low-cut dress, the ragged ribbons of satin and tufts of fur that had comprised her fine new cape… wondering… was it still there? Her fingers connected with something firm, made of tooled leather. It was! The fools! The Black Ajah had taken her long knife, naturally, as well as the smaller dagger hidden in her boot, but had neglected to confiscate her belt-pouch, doubtless thinking it contained nothing that could do them harm, or hurt their prisoner either. Well, they were wrong on _both_ counts…

Swiftly, Rashiel searched through the contents of the pouch; tinder, flint, whetstone, Ellyth's letter to Renn, rouge, string… ah, there it was. Rashiel's trembling hand closed around a thick, glass vial. She now had the means to cheat the Shadow of its intended purpose… too bad it all had to end like this. But then, Rashiel scowled ferociously. She was a native of Ebou Dar, and the women of her City were not in the habit of letting an insult from another woman stand… kill herself? No, those Black traitors had kidnapped and humiliated her… that would not go unanswered. Instead of suicide, she had a better idea…

Rising unsteadily, Rashiel staggered over to the iron-bound door, fresh pain from the angry stripes across her back and buttocks, thighs and calves, making itself felt. She ignored the discomfort, her mind focused on but one thing; _revenge._ At first, nothing happened when she rapped loudly upon the door, but after a while, the conversing voices from above ceased and Rashiel heard heavy footsteps approaching, descending toward her. A bolt was pulled back and the small door swung slowly open.

Rashiel winced as bright light from the candles and open fire above pierced the fog of her gloom-attuned eyesight. Jakomin Thorness stood there, yet wearing the red-fringed shawl to which she had absolutely no right, given that she was of the Black Ajah. A stolid, plain woman with heavy black eyebrows, she frowned at Rashiel. Her habitual expression.

"What do you _want_ , harlot?" Jakomin demanded, in a pronounced Andoran accent.

Rashiel overlooked the pejorative term… for now… "I wish to speak to Gyldan Sedai… to _all_ of you," she murmured, keeping her pale eyes demurely lowered, so that the Black Ajah hag would not see the hatred in them.

Jakomin's frown became a scowl. "Do you seek another whipping?" she growled.

Rashiel forced her expression to remain neutral, for all that it was difficult. Jakomin Thorness had been one of the other three Reds whom she had hunted Mazrim Taim with, alongside the arrogant Lady Ellyth as well as the redoubtable and disconcerting legendary Green Sister, Cadsuane Melaidhrin. Rashiel and Jakomin had been comrades then; suffering the same privations, embarking on the same important mission… just knowing that there had been a Black Sister at her side all along made her want to shudder. Rashiel did not, however, forcing herself to smile. Jakomin smiled also, the closest she could manage at least; a cruel baring of the teeth.

"Go back inside those luxurious quarters and wait for your suitors to arrive, slut!" Jakomin hissed, "the Myrddraal shall be here to entertain you presently, though you'll not enjoy their company so much as you usually do that of menfolk, I'll warrant!"

 _Just because no man has ever looked at you with anything other than fear and repugnance!_ Rashiel thought to herself, rather cattily. Well, it was not exactly the _first_ time that she had been called a 'slut.' She sincerely hoped that it would not be the last…

"What does the girl want, Jakomin?" enquired a loud voice from above, which Rashiel recognised as Gyldan's.

Keeping a suspicious eye on Rashiel, Jakomin turned her head slightly. "The silly little bitch wants to talk to you, Gyldan," she answered, truculently.

"Well, march her on up here, then… I could use some amusement!"

Muttering angrily under her breath, Jakomin grabbed Rashiel's bare arm and propelled her up the few stone steps that led to the main hall. A dozen pairs of unfriendly eyes stared at Rashiel as she entered the large room. She self-consciously attempted to smooth her tattered shift further down over her thighs, with little success.

"Bring her to me," ordered Gyldan, and Jakomin and another Black Sister, a bony, skinny woman from Illian named Lydra, each took an arm and hustled Rashiel over to where their Leader sat by the fire. A fierce blaze burned in a wide, brick hearth; the long, oak-panelled hall was decorated with faded banners and the disapproving-looking stuffed heads of various horned and antlered beasts. Rashiel wondered if _her_ head would join them?

Gyldan Navorov occupied a wooden armchair, her booted feet stretched out toward the flames in the grate, a large wineglass held in one hand, half-empty or half-full depending upon one's perspective. Gyldan turned her head, deep-set, dark eyes to either side of a bold nose fixed on Rashiel as she was dragged forward.

"Well?" Gyldan enquired in somewhat slurred tones, "what is it, Rashiel? Do you require further punishment?" The other Black Ajah had gathered around to watch, some smiled eagerly at the prospect.

Though it was one of the hardest acts that she had ever performed, Rashiel forced herself to kneel, hands clasped together in supplication. "I wish to apologise, Gyldan Sedai, for the harsh words I spoke earlier," she murmured. Whilst the Black Ajah had used the One Power to whip her, in between the screams of agony, Rashiel had managed to shout several choice insults concerning those who betrayed humanity and served the Shadow… for which defiance, she was yet rather proud of herself.

"Is that _it?_ " Gyldan muttered, swirling the red wine reflectively around in her glass. She had a reputation in the Tower for being something of a sot, and her speech was certainly indicative of inebriation. "Where in the Pit are those Shadow-cursed Myrddraal?" Gyldan wondered to herself, "the bloody Halfmen should have got here by now…"

Rashiel could see that it would be something of a chore to gain and hold Gyldan's wandering attention. "No, that is not all!" she cried, "I have been thinking on it, reflecting upon my situation, and I have decided… I wish to swear my Oaths to the Dark One!" A mutter of disbelief and discontent arose about Rashiel as the dozen Black Ajah women considered her surprising words. Rashiel blinked. "I mean; the Great Lord of the Dark," she corrected herself, " _not_ the Dark One… it is to Shai'tan that I would pledge allegiance!"

Gyldan drained her wineglass in one gulp, set it aside, then leaned forward in her chair and slapped Rashiel hard across the face. "The first rule you should learn is this; _that_ name is never to be used of the Great Lord," she explained laboriously, "why, tis _blasphemy!_ " Gyldan leant back in her armchair and laughed nastily, before composing herself. She steepled her fingers, regarding Rashiel over them. "So… you would avoid being Turned and take service with the Shadow of your own volition, little Sister?" Rashiel nodded fervently, whilst thinking of several interesting ways in which she would like to repay Gyldan for the slap.

"I don't believe a burning word of it!" Jakomin muttered.

"Nor I," added Lydra, "she's do be no Friend…"

"When I want your opinion, I'll bloody _ask_ for it!" Gyldan snapped, then eyed the other Black Sisters blearily. "That goes for _all_ of you." Her dark-eyed gaze, somewhat unfocused, returned to Rashiel as she considered the request, then she shook her head. "Sorry, but I do not trust you. I think me that you would say or do _anything_ to avoid your appointed tryst with the thirteen Fades I have summoned…" Gyldan frowned, muttering in an aside; " _if_ they ever _get_ here!" She then shrugged, allowing; "self-preservation is perfectly understandable, of course…"

"But Gyldan Sedai, I cannot tell a lie!" Rashiel promptly lied, "not like you Black Sisters do… I swore on the Oath Rod to speak no word that was not true… I _do_ wish to serve the Great Lord of the Dark, with all my heart!" This, in and of itself, was pure falsehood.

Rashiel did not trouble to mention her secret, particular ability… an extremely rare Talent… at least, that was what she _thought_ it must be. When Raised to Aes Sedai, Rashiel had been surprised to discover that the ancient _ter'angreal_ that compelled those who swore upon it to keep to their pledges, had absolutely no effect on her, that the three Oaths she took whilst holding the Rod were somehow nullified by some inner immunity. Presumably, she could also use the One Power to harm others, outside of the bounds of the oath, as well as to make weapons forged with _saidar_ … but had never put either theory to the test. The only person who knew of her Talent was Renn, whom Rashiel had sworn to secrecy. Her Brown Ajah friend had searched the archives extensively on her behalf, but had not found any mention of such an ability in the long history of the White Tower, and could not explain it.

Gyldan Navorov considered Rashiel's statement. "You make an excellent point, little one…" but then, she shook her head again, more decisively this time. "Howbeit, I have my orders; you are to be Turned to the Shadow this very night. I may not disobey." She then glanced at Jakomin and Lydra. "Put her back in the root-cellar and if she causes any more trouble, whip her soundly some more. Just don't _kill_ her, she's needed."

Rashiel was roughly hauled to her feet. "Please don't lock me in there, I am much afeared of the dark!" she wailed, worrying that she might be overdoing it. "Let me remain and serve you, Gyldan Sedai, allow me to serve you all!"

Harsh laughter greeted this outburst, Gyldan smiled thinly. "And how exactly would you serve the Black Ajah, girl?"

"Put her up on the table, have her sing us a nice song!" suggested a Black Sister. "Let's just flog her some more, I find her screams pleasing," added another.

Rashiel focused desperately on Gyldan's empty glass. "I could pour you more wine, Gyldan Sedai?" she offered, "as a maiden, I often served in the taverns of Ebou Dar…" Rashiel did not add that she had only taken the lowly work when her father was gripped by one of his bouts of illness, during which strange events would occurr, and could not provide for his family.

Gyldan considered, then shrugged carelessly. "Alright then… the jug is over there…"

Kneeling and begging to these Shadow-sworn harridans had been hard enough for Rashiel, but _not_ smiling triumphantly at this opportunity was _far_ harder. After she had poured a deal of adulterated wine for every Black Sister from the large, clay jug, waiting until they had all drunk their fill, Rashiel set the receptacle aside and did indeed get up on the table, as had been suggested… though not to sing any songs.

Some of the women, those who had no interest in men, eyed Rashiel salaciously, the brief shift displaying her long legs and fine bust to advantage, but she ignored their ogling regard with the same disdain that she had avoided their caressing hands whilst she served them wine. Really, apart from having better personal hygiene, they were little different from the drunken louts who had attempted to fondle her in some of the low taverns of the Rahad!

"What are you doing up there, wench?" Gyldan slurred, blinking at Rashiel, "are you going to give us a _speech?_ " Further cruel laughter erupted within the hall.

"Yes!" Rashiel answered proudly, "I now wish to make certain remarks concerning the sort of Light-cursed scum who serve Shai'tan!" Rashiel did not get much further than that, vicious blows began to strike her from every angle, a weave of Air tore her shift from her and she fell from the table with a shriek. Soon, she was reduced to a sobbing mass of welts and bruises, lying curled upon the floorboards.

"Enough!" Gyldan eventually commanded, and motioned for Jakomin and Lydra to pick Rashiel up and take her back to her rude cell. Rashiel was dragged down the steps and thrown to the dirt floor. She lay there, quivering and moaning with agony.

"That'll learn you, slut!" Jakomin rasped.

"Where in the Blight are those bloody Myrddraal?" Rashiel overheard Gyldan shout angrily, then the door was slammed shut and she was plunged into darkness. The bolt slid into the hasps with a loud click and heavy footsteps moved away, ascending the stone steps.

Rashiel promptly spat out the small, glass vial that she had been concealing in her cheek; it had been full before, now it was all but empty of the potent substance it had contained. She had saved the last of the contents for herself, just in case the desperate plan failed. She lay on the dirt floor awhile, nude and shivering, listening intently. Then; distantly from above came the muted sound of violent coughing, rising to a crescendo, punctuated by choked screams. Abruptly, the Shield that prevented her from touching the One Power vanished entirely, as if it had never existed.

Rashiel smiled coldly and rose slowly to her feet, her head spinning, flinching and wincing as the movement engendered fresh pain. She opened herself to the True Source, feeling _saidar_ fill her, bringing strength to her exhausted body, but also heightened awareness of her many hurts. How she wished that it was possible to Heal herself with the Power, but it was not, so that was all there was to it. She required another Aes Sedai to mend her injuries.

"Renn," Rashiel muttered to herself, reflectively, "I need Renn…" She stared at the bolted, iron-bound door to the root-cellar, narrowed her pale eyes, and struck with powerful flows of Air. The heavy wooden portal abruptly exploded outwards in a cloud of splinters. Still holding _saidar_ , she stepped through the doorway and made her slow, painful way up the steps to the main hall. There, everything was much as she had expected it to be.

Rashiel smiled a predatory smile. " _That_ is how a woman of Ebou Dar answers an egregious insult and deals with filthy Darkfriends!" she told the thirteen Black Ajah Sisters, but they were in no fit condition to attend to her words. _Thirteen_ … Rashiel's smile slipped. There were thirteen Myrddraal coming, were there not? In her present condition, she was in no fit state to face such a dread enemy… Fear arose anew within her, and she did something that she very rarely did… she _panicked_. Escaping out into the night, Rashiel fled naked through the dark forest with nothing to her name but for her belt-pouch, clutched in a serpent-ringed hand. The shadows beneath the trees swallowed her up, as though she had never been.

 _When the Myrddraal finally arrived at the hunting-lodge, which had been used for such dark ceremonies before, they stood in a loose group at the centre of the hall, examining with eyeless gazes the thirteen Black Ajah witches who had commanded their presence. The Darkfriend hags were all dead, every one. Most lay on the floor, curled corpses that had clawed at their throats as they died. One was slumped back in a chair by the fire, staring up at the roof-beams with dark, sightless eyes, drying blood trickling from her nostrils and lips._

 _The thirteen Myrddraal glanced at one another, expressing something that might almost have been satisfaction. It had irked them to have to answer the summons of the loathed Black Sisters, and the process of being utilised as a dark lens through which flows of_ saidar _were weaved to Turn a victim to the Shadow was an uncomfortable one for them. It would now seem that their services were no longer required…_

 _The spilled wineglasses and cups close to the dead Darkfriend's cold hands told full well what had killed them… to confirm this suspicion, one of the Myrddraal stepped sinuously over to the large, clay jug on the table and lifted the vessel, sniffing what little was left of the contents. It turned to its Brothers… "_ Poisoned, _" it hissed in the Shadow-tongue, its voice sounding like sloughed snakeskin crumbling underfoot._

 _The other Myrddraal turned their blind, pallid faces to each other as they considered this development. They had not wished to come to this place, but it was scarcely their fault that they would now not be able to fulfil their dread function, their onerous duty. The witches of the Black Ajah were extremely dead, and that was all there was to it. Myrddraal were, of course, entirely unable to look_ pleased _, but standing amongst the dozen-and-one corpses of the hated Shadow-sworn Firewomen, ageless faces twisted in agonised death, stiff fingers clutched desperately at their swollen throats… well, for once, these Halfmen did not look as though they loathed life quite so much as they usually did._

 _The Myrddraal holding the clay jug abruptly tipped it up and drank the deadly dregs carelessly so that spilled wine slopped over its pale jaw and serpent-scaled breastplate. It tossed the empty jug into the fireplace, where it smashed loudly, and swallowed the tainted wine without any apparent ill-effects. It wiped its mouth with the back of its gauntlet, belched slightly, then smiled cruelly at its Brothers. The dozen Myrddraal smiled cruelly back._

 _Borderlanders hold that whilst Trollocs have a vile and base sense of humour amongst themselves, Myrddraal have none at all, which is perfectly true. Even so, in unconcernedly draining the remnants of the lethal wine, this particular Myrddraal had just come the closest that one of its foul kind could to actually telling a_ joke _. A well-received jest, at that. After a final eyeless examination of the expired Darkfriends, the thirteen Myrddraal filed silently outside and, without troubling to bid each other farewell, promptly rode the shadows to various faraway places that were, presumably, less_ dead.

The Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois rode slowly down the ancient road on his seemingly equally ancient horse, brooding upon the events of the morning. After swearing his Oath to Hunt the Horn in Illian, his quest had taken him far north, to the Borderlands. He had overheard a rumour in Ghealdan that the latest Madman to raise the Dragon's Banner had an extensive collection of arcane artefacts, and might even be in possession of the fabled Horn of Valere. Though it seemed unlikely, it was all Dagnon had to go on…

Sitting alone at a table in the mostly-deserted common room of _Wheylan's Wolf_ , the largest Inn that the Saldaean border-town of Gahaur could boast, Dagnon had been glumly inspecting his thin purse, wondering whether he could justify the expense of a room for the night. Even this far north, everything had become so prodigious _expensive_ of late! Then, he had heard Murandian accents for the first time since leaving the nation of his birth… albeit, harsh Mindean tones, which set his teeth on edge. He did not care for Mindeans… no-one did, as far as he was aware, they even seemed to hate each other…

"Where's me ale?" demanded an ugly voice, shouting loudly.

" _And_ me wine!" bellowed further unattractive tones.

Dagnon turned to look, and his hawkish blue eyes narrowed, since he did not like what he saw. Two red-faced swordsmen with curled moustaches not unlike his own were expansively occupying the best table, by the hearth. They wore long Murandian coats, like Dagnon's, though theirs were finely tailored of silk, whereas his was spun from simple cloth, and rather shabby cloth at that. Indeed, as the only son of an old but impoverished House, the sole possession of his that had any value was the Family Sword, a fine Heron-mark blade, Power-wrought. It had belonged to Dagnon's House for uncounted generations and was rumoured to have once been the personal weapon of Raolin Darksbane himself, though this provenance was kept fairly quiet, considering the notorious False Dragon's dark reputation.

A harried-looking barmaid hurried over to the Mindean's table with a tray, setting a glass down before the loud brute in the yellow coat, a mug in front of the other noisy oaf, whose coat was red. The two looked at each other, then at the maid, who began to turn away. The Mindean in the yellow coat seized her arm roughly.

"This be _wine!_ " he complained, "I wanted _ale!_ "

"Sorry, milord," the barmaid gasped, struggling to free herself from his grip, "I got them the wrong way around…"

The Mindean in the red coat rose and tipped the contents of his mug over the maid's head. "Wine!" he roared, "and that right quick!"

Yellow-coat laughed harshly and released the maid, her hair and face sodden with ale, then gave her a casual slap with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling to the floorboards. The landlord of the Inn came out from behind the bar to remonstrate, but when the Mindeans touched their hilts and stared at him belligerently, he thought better of it and helped the barmaid to her feet, leading her quickly away from them.

By this, Dagnon had risen and was striding across the otherwise empty common room toward the two bullying Mindeans. They took note of his approach with a certain amount of caution, but little in the way of actual wariness… but then, they had never met Dagnon, and had no idea what he was capable of. He intended that they should find this out, but there were formalities to be observed first.

"May I know your names, my Lords?" Dagnon enquired smoothly, halting before them. The Mindeans exchanged amused glances.

"A Murandian, methinks," commented yellow-coat.

"From the Stornlands, by the sound of it," mused red-coat.

"You have the right of it, sir. And you are both Mindeans, I believe," Dagnon observed, adding; "we are all a long way from home."

"I am Lord Paers, if you must know, fellow," revealed the yellow-coated Mindean.

"And me name is Lord Culen," added the red-coated Mindean.

"We hunt the Horn," Lord Paers explained, grandly.

"Took our oaths in Illian and everything!" Lord Culen boasted.

Dagnon smiled patiently. "I too seek the Horn of Valere," he stated proudly, "though I do not recall seeing either of you in the Square of Tammaz, during the ceremony…"

"Do you doubt our word, stranger?" demanded Lord Paers, angrily.

Dagnon's smile did not slip an inch. "Not at all. There were a great many newly-sworn Hunters there, I recall. Presumably, we missed each other in the crowd."

"So what be _your_ name, inquisitive fellow?" Lord Culen demanded.

"I am gratified that you ask. I have the honour to be the Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois," Dagnon answered, introducing himself at last.

The two Mindeans grinned insolently.

"You, also a _Lord?_ " Paers queried, with open disbelief.

"Why, even me servant Padry be better dressed than thee!" Culen added, jerking a thumb at a skinny creature lingering nearby, clad in a Murandian coat of dark wool that Dagnon had to admit, was significantly smarter than his own. Padry bobbed his head nervously, scrubbing his pale hands together. There was something rather insubstantial about him, Dagnon had not actually noticed that he was there until he moved.

"Be that as it may, I am the scion of an ancient and noble House, while I have certainly never heard of either of _you_ …" Dagnon drew himself up, his tone becoming serious as he moved on to the business at hand, the reason why he had come over to talk to this pair of loudly-dressed thugs in the first place. "I take issue with your treatment of the maidservant and intend to punish you for your ill behaviour." Dagnon shrugged. "If I can also teach you some manners at the same time, then that will be an added boon, but I misdoubt you are capable of learning the etiquette required of your station. In point of fact, I rather doubt that you have been Lords for long, presumably you _bought_ your titles!" Whoever was temporarily occupying the uncertain throne of Murandy often supplemented their treasury with the sale of Lordships to ambitious commoners with coin to spare…

Lords Paers and Culen scowled furiously, touching their ornate sword-hilts. Padry made a moaning sound, retreating to the wall. Dagnon simply swept back his travel-worn cloak, revealing his ancient blade. Lord Paers' eyes widened as he took note of the Heron-mark, but Lord Culen sneered, unimpressed.

"Where did you find that sword, shabby fellow? Tell you what, sell it me and I'll let you live, give or take a scar or two… else I'll take it from your corpse!"

"Please, my Lords!" protested the rotund landlord, from his place of safety behind the bar, "no swordplay in here! I beg of you, take your quarrel out into the courtyard…"

Dagnon nodded, then strode out of the back door of the common room, leaving the Mindeans to exchange angry looks, before hurrying after him. In the courtyard outside, Dagnon promptly went to a stack of firewood by the wall and selected a solid oak stave, the length of his arm. His opponents stumbled out into the open, watching him warily.

"What be you _doing?_ " Lord Paers demanded.

"Draw your blade!" challenged Lord Culen.

Dagon shook his head. "I have no intent to besmirch the sword of my House with your ignoble blood," he explained laboriously, as to those of slow intellect, "you are patently unworthy of the honour!" He raised the stout length of oak. "So, I shall use _this._ Ready?"

The two Mindean Hunters exchanged confused, scornful glances, then promptly drew their gaudy blades and attacked, clearly not caring that two-against-one went against all accepted duelling practice, as did the concept of swords versus sticks…

After deftly disarming the Mindean idiots and beating them both severely, Dagnon fetched his skinny old horse from the stables, an ailing, yellowish creature named 'Buttercup' that, like his House, had seen better days. Dagnon had no desire to spend any longer beneath the same roof as the two brutal cowards he had chastised; Lords Paers and Culen were currently languishing in their rooms, nursing sore heads and broken bones, loudly attended by their hand-wringing, unctuous servant, Padry.

As Dagnon heeled Buttercup to a gentle amble, the best the aged beast could manage, passing beneath the stableyard archway of _Wheylan's Wolf_ and out onto the dirt road that led north from Gahaur, a shrill voice cried; "wait, milord!"

Dagnon tugged on the reins and swivelled in the saddle… the abused barmaid, a bruise on her cheek, was trotting awkwardly after him, a large, flat basket held in both hands.

"Thank you for standing up for me, milord," the maid gasped, "tis more than Master Bishar would do, those two Murandian pigs have much coin and he won't turn them away, however bad they treat the help!" She extended the basket. "Here!"

Dagnon glanced at the heap of game pies and spiced sausages within, and his stomach growled. It had been long since he had dined so well… but it could not be. "I thank you, Mistress, but I cannot accept your charity, however well-intentioned."

"T'aint charity, milord… tis a reward for your bravery!"

Dagnon smiled patiently. "Mercenaries are more usually paid in silver than in _pies_ , I do believe… but even so, since I am no sell-sword, I must refuse."

The barmaid looked crestfallen, but lowered the basket, seeing that Dagnon would not change his mind. "It did my heart good to see you thwack those brutes with your stick," she muttered with vengeful relish, "I were watching from the privy window, and saw it all!"

Dagnon nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I would not exactly say that it was a dissatisfying experience," he murmured, twirling the points of his large, reddish moustache.

"Murandians!" the maid spat, "bunch of animals!"

"I _also_ hail from Murandy," Dagnon mentioned, "but fortunately, I am no Mindean."

The barmaid's mouth dropped open and she blushed furiously. "Forgive me, Lord!" she wailed, "I noticed that you had the big moustache and long coat and talked funny, but I thought you could not _possibly_ be from Murandy… why, you are so polite and thoughtful!"

Dagnon sighed; it was far from the first time that he had encountered such prejudicial attitudes from outlanders, for all that they were somewhat based on fact… his were a quarrelsome people, on the whole. "Which way is it to Maradon?" he enquired. He was fairly certain that he knew already, but wished to change the subject. The barmaid nodded in a north-easterly direction and then provided a long list of confused directions.

Now, some time later, Dagnon was quite thoroughly lost, and night was drawing on. He had no idea where the ancient road he followed was leading as it wound through the dark forest, but he did not think it could be Maradon. The capital city of Saldaea had doubtless not existed when this dilapidated thoroughfare was built, mayhap these antiquated, cracked paving-stones led to the ruins of Barsine or Nashebar, or somewhere even older than that?

The last person Dagnon had met, a lone, thickly-bearded fur-trapper, his decorative leather jerkin much bedecked with Trolloc scalps, had gruffly told him that there was a _stedding_ in the vicinity, but apart from muttering something about being 'drawn' there, would not be more specific than that. Quite a taciturn fellow, really… and what had he meant by that last remark? Was 'drawn' perhaps Saldaean slang for feeling hungry, or tired? In any case, the idea of guesting with the Ogier for the night appealed to Dagnon, primarily because some sort of comfortable _bed_ might be involved, but also since it was something that he had never done before. The gaining of new experiences was one of the main reasons Dagnon had chosen to swear his Oath in the Square of Tammaz and become a Hunter of the Horn. That, and his fervent desire to do something important with his life…

It was then that the bush to Dagnon's right unexpectedly spoke to him in a decidedly feminine voice, with the unmistakeable exotic accents of southern Altara; "hey, you with the big moustache… do you have any spare _clothes?_ I'm bloody _freezing!_ " With these words, it transpired that, for better or for worse, the important something had finally found him.

 _Soorla daughter of Unalla daughter of Laffa sat in her customary place beneath her favourite willow, on the mossy bank of the gentle stream that flowed through the heart of Stedding Saishen. The young Ogier maiden, who had recently celebrated her ninety-third name-day with family and friends, was leafing slowly through some of her more recent charcoal sketches, trying to find the one that she had drawn that very morning. It was now evening, and she had sketched several more subjects in the intervening time, but they had all been her fellow Ogier, posing at her request or drawn unknowingly whilst engaged in various tasks. The sketch she sought was different, in that it was a rendering of a human, a lone woodsman whom Soorla had encountered shortly after dawn in the forest just beyond the eastern border of the stedding._

 _Soorla had gone there, as she often did, to look at the Waygate. The ancient artefact fascinated her, it always had, ever since as a girl she had asked her grandfather, Elder Sandu, what it was. The Elder had answered reluctantly, but since his calling was that of a teacher, he had also answered in extensive detail. Soorla had later supplemented this knowledge from every book she could find that described the use of Waygates and the methods of navigation through the Ways. Soorla had kept her frequent visits to the Waygate a secret, for she knew that the Elders of Stedding Saishen and worse, her mother Unalla, would frown upon such an interest. The Ways were now considered dangerous, and had been declared off-limits to all, though no-one would say why. Soorla had overheard dark rumours, however, and then there was the much-regretted loss of old Timbal, who had mysteriously disappeared within the Ways when he went to visit his sister at Stedding Tsofu. He had been a fine Tree-Singer…_

 _Ah, there it was… finally! Soorla held up the charcoal sketch of the human whom she had met that morning, examining it critically with her large eyes. It wasn't bad, she had to admit, she was definitely getting better at portraiture. Drawing her fellow Ogier was easy enough, but humans were more difficult, much more. They seemed so disparate, with such a greater range of expression and appearance. This particular human, a Saldaean trapper, had been curiously examining the Waygate also, when Soorla discovered him. Her request to draw his likeness had clearly surprised the man, but he had acceded politely enough, doing his best to stand still beside the arcane stone slab carved with leaves and vines, whilst Soorla's deft hand had moved the charcoal stub across the page with rapid, skilful strokes._

 _Soorla had shown him the sketch when it was completed and he had seemed pleased with the image of himself, though it was hard to tell since a dense, black beard covered most of his face._ And _he had the scalps of_ Trollocs _sewn all over his jerkin! Why would he wish to be minded of their existence in such a fashion? Humans certainly were strange creatures! For all that she lived in a Borderlands stedding, Soorla had never seen a Trolloc, and had no wish to. There were few incursions this far south of the Blight, and in any case, no Shadowspawn dared venture into a stedding. The peaceful aura of the Ogier realm would cause terrible anguish to any minion of the Dark One, Soorla was certain of it._

 _Soorla lowered the sketch with a gusty sigh. Portraits of Ogier and humans were all very well, and upon occasion even remunerative, but they did not compare with her true passion, for painting trees. She had sketched all of the Great Trees of the stedding from every angle, as well as several other notable oaks, yews and birches, her favourite willow also, of course… she had even painted the Stump, which was not even a living tree anymore!_

 _Something within Soorla compelled her to do so, something more powerful than the simple love of trees that all Ogier shared. Her mother thought her strange, for indulging so fully in her art, and Soorla supposed that she was right. A particular talent or obsession often seemed to skip a generation amongst Ogier and humans alike, but in Soorla's case it had skipped_ two. _Neither her mother, Unalla, nor her lamented grandmother, Laffa, had ever had any interest in art for art's sake, though both had been skilled weavers in their day, producing fine tapestries, carpets and rugs that had fetched high prices in Maradon, and also in other human cities even further away than that._

 _But Laffa's mother and Soorla's great grand-dam, Elora daughter of Amar daughter of Coura, had been famous in her times, some one-thousand years ago. A noted Historian, but also a talented Sculptress who had been much in demand throughout the Westlands for her exquisite, life-like renderings in marble. It was unfortunate that so few of her masterpieces had survived the War of a Hundred Years, and even more unfortunate that she had not either. Though no-one in Soorla's family was entirely sure what had become of Elora, it was whispered that she had vanished in unexplained circumstances after executing her final commission… a life-size statue of the notorious human Warlord, Guaire Amalasan. It was said that Elora had only agreed to sculpt the False Dragon on the condition that he provide her with valuable information for a book that she was close to completing, on the subject of male and female channelers. 'Men of Fire and Women of Air' was published posthumously, few copies of it survived to present days, but there was one in Stedding Saishen's Library._

 _Soorla sighed again. Whatever had moved her ancestor Elora to sculpt people moved her also, to paint trees. What she would not give, to visit the fabled Grove at Tar Valon, and sketch the beautiful woodland there… but it was considered too dangerous to travel abroad at the moment, with the forces of the latest Dragon Pretender, Mazrim Taim, very much on the rampage. Soorla raised a silky eyebrow thoughtfully, as something occurred to her that had not previously. For of course, there was always the Waygate…_

As her brusque words faded into the silence beneath the trees, Rashiel Tamor yet crouched behind the holly bush, shivering. She examined the tall fellow on the decrepit horse cautiously… he did not _look_ like a Darkfriend, as such, but one could never be sure. After her recent nightmarish experiences, she was a little short on _trust._ Rashiel peered closer at the young man… he was quite handsome, really, in an unostentatious sort of way, though she was not so sure about that hairy thing on his upper lip, she much preferred her men clean-shaven, one of the very few points on which she saw eye-to-eye with Shrina… but she was getting side-tracked. Receiving a punishing whipping and then wandering all night through an ominous forest, bare as a babe, where every tree-trunk and boulder might well conceal a murderous Myrddraal… well, it was the sort of unenviable experience that could only serve to disorder the mind.

Rashiel had spent much of the following day sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted, concealed within a pile of dead leaves into which she had occasionally channeled slender flows of Fire, carefully warming her environs without actually setting the dry vegetation alight, to ward herself from death by exposure. Now; she was cold, hungry and in considerable pain… but mostly, just cold. The mental technique of blotting out such sensations seemed to work much better when you were actually _wearing_ something…

The tall horseman was staring at the holly bush with some suspicion, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Rashiel sighed, decided that he was _not_ sworn to the Shadow, for he would doubtless have been better dressed in that wise, and rose from her place of concealment, hands arranged decorously over her breasts. The holly bush shielded her lower-half from his vision, but even so, the young man gasped, colouring, and averted his eyes in a somewhat old-fashioned way. " _Clothes?_ " Rashiel prompted impatiently, reminding him of her request.

"Of course, my Lady, but one moment…" The Murandian – for he could be nothing else with that pointed moustache, long coat and antiquated mode of speech – dismounted hastily and began to root through his saddlebags. Rashiel watched him warily, though not quite so cautiously as to not take approving notice of his wide shoulders and broad back… he was rather beautiful actually, despite the shabby appearance and bristly moustache. She yet held _saidar_ , even so, fully prepared to defend herself with potent weaves should it prove necessary. She did not think it would, though… the handsome fellow seemed well-disposed toward her, but then, she _was_ naked! In Rashiel's considerable experience, the less clothes a woman wore, the more tractable a man became.

"That's a rather old-looking horse you have there," Rashiel commented, eyeing the weary, yellowish animal curiously. It stood still, reins hanging loose, cropping the grass that sprouted between the ancient paves at its feet in a desultory way. Its iron-shod hooves clopping upon the stones had been what alerted Rashiel to the approach of a rider.

"Buttercup is older than _me_ ," the young man answered, not turning away from the saddlebags, "he has been in the family for long years… why, in my grandfather's day, my House had a stud-farm to its name, we bred and trained warhorses for the White Tower stables, but those times are long gone… Buttercup is all that is left." He sounded regretful, but Rashiel was focused on but one part of his explanation, that concerning the Tower. So his House was a friend to Aes Sedai, it seemed… that was well to know.

The Murandian turned, holding up a long coat, linen shirt and britches. "Forgive me, my Lady, but these are the smallest, cleanest garments that I can claim ownership of…" he hesitated, then suggested; "I could leave them draped upon yon bush and then turn my back?"

"I don't have time for your prudishness, fellow!" Rashiel snapped, "these are the bloody _Borderlands_ and tis cold enough to freeze the teats off a Sailmistress!" With that choice epithet, garnered from Shrina when they were novices, Rashiel lowered her hands immodestly, marched around the bush and snatched the grubby apparel from the young man's grasp. He gaped at her, blushing furiously. Rashiel sniffed. "What is the matter, moustache-face, never seen a nude woman before?" she enquired, with a slow smile.

"Of a certainty I have, my Lady, though ne'er one so lovely!"

Rashiel raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, thank you, handsome… I suppose…" To spare him further blushes, she turned her back, fiddling with the laces on the overlarge shirt.

He gasped again, louder if anything this time. "Good my Lady! By the Hand of the Creator, you have been ill-used… your back, your legs, your… your…"

Rashiel glanced over her shoulder, noting that the young man was yet red-faced, though more with anger now. She smiled slyly. "My _bottom?_ " she prompted.

"Yes, _that_ … you would appear to have been _flogged_ , and that right cruelly!"

Rashiel shrugged into the shirt, which came down to well below her hips, wincing as the rough linen rubbed against the sore weals in her skin. She turned, looking up at the provider of her garments. He was indeed tall, she had a penchant for men of impressive height, which made her dalliance with the diminutive Lord Wakime all the more confusing… though just about _everything_ concerning that preening little popinjay had confused her!

"Who has molested you?" the youthful Murandian demanded, "give to me the blaggard's name and location and I swear on my Hunter's Oath that I shall soon avenge you!"

Rashiel blinked. "Blaggard?" she repeated, "did you just say; 'blaggard?'"

The young swordsman looked uncomfortable. "Tis a common enough expression in Murandy," he muttered, self-consciously.

Rashiel grinned, amused. "Well, tis a word I don't believe I have ever encountered outside of an adventure story…" Rashiel had little time for Romances or Poetry, but enjoyed reading tales of warriors, battles, entire wars, the Hunt for the… hold, had not the attractive fellow mentioned a certain oath? "You are a Hunter of the Horn?" Rashiel enquired.

"Certes I am." The youthful Murandian bowed gracefully. "The Lord Dagnon do Merivny a'Vrois, at your service my Lady, most particularly with a view to punishing those who tormented you so viciously and vilely!"

"You _are_ a single-minded individual, Lord Dagnon. Well, I thank you for the offer, but I have already taken care of those traitors, they'll not trouble anyone ever again." Dagnon merely nodded, and seemed satisfied with this course of events. Rashiel drew herself up straighter, making the plain linen shirt that comprised her sole garment seem like the resplendent gown of a Queen, seated upon the Throne of Winds. Not that she wished to do any sitting down for quite some time… "I am Rashiel Tamor, a woman of Ebou Dar and Aes Sedai of the White Tower," she revealed, not choosing to name her Ajah, because she was no longer entirely sure what it was...

Dagnon's blue eyes widened only slightly, illustrating that he held greater self-possession than had seemed to be the case, and he bowed again, lower this time, flourishing his worn cloak. Rashiel noted that the long, curved blade buckled to his belt bore the Heron-mark, the weapon of a Swordmaster, and her interest in the young Lord increased.

"I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Rashiel Sedai," Dagnon murmured, "pray tell, might I offer you further assistance?"

"You might," Rashiel allowed, wobbling on one leg whilst struggling into the awkward britches, "but are you sure you do not have a _dress_ in those saddlebags?" Dagnon shook his head gravely. "No, I do not suppose that you would… you don't seem like the type…" Rashiel sighed. "Got any food?"

"I am afraid not, honoured Aes Sedai."

Rashiel sighed again.

A time later, as they plodded along on the wheezing horse, Rashiel pressed to Dagnon's broad back, arms about his waist, relishing the welcome warmth of his body, she considered her good fortune in having met the young Murandian Lord… whilst doing her best to ignore the painful sensations in her posterior. His saddle was rather old, and the hard, cracked leather was unkind to her bruised behind. The men's clothing was uncomfortable also, but kept out the cold to her satisfaction, his spare pair of boots protecting her toes from frostbite… and his sword at her service, should she require it. He had repeatedly made that clear. So what to do now? Rashiel meant to return to Tar Valon as soon as possible, for all that the Island City was quite some distance away… she urgently wished to speak with Renn about the Black Ajah, and other developments besides. Healing would be nice too. But if anyone would know what to do, it would be Renn Faltrey… and besides, she had a letter from Ellyth to deliver to her Brown Ajah friend. Rashiel had promised to place it in Renn's hand, and took such duties seriously.

"You said something about a _stedding_ , Lord Dagnon?" Rashiel reminded him.

"Indeed, Rashiel Sedai. The trapper told me of it, but he was a little difficult to comprehend, and seemed to find mine own accents passing hard to understand also. He kept saying; ' _huh?_ ' or ' _what?_ ' every time I spoke." Rashiel giggled. "Incidentally, you need not name me 'Lord' whenever you address me, Rashiel Sedai, just 'Dagnon' will be fine."

"Well in that case, Just Dagnon, it is 'Rashiel' without the 'Sedai.' _That_ particular honorific I can do without quite happily."

They rode on companionably for a time, seeking what the fur-trapper had called 'Stedding Saishen.' As evening became night, and Rashiel and Dagnon were beginning to give up hope of finding the _stedding_ and had begun to look for a likely camp-site, two events occurred in rapid succession…

The first event was that their horse abruptly died, laying down in the road rather suddenly and expiring with a sad sigh, barely giving them time to scramble from the saddle.

The second event to occur, a few scant moments later, was that they both fell hopelessly in love with each other.

* * *

The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar lay back in the lumpy-mattressed bed salvaged from the wreck of the _Queen Mab_ , the sole such item of furniture within the camp, listening as the Aes Sedai Rashiel Tamor, lying beside her, completed her tale.

"So anyway, I knelt there and wept a little over poor old Buttercup; I have always been fond of animals as you know, Ysmet darling, and-"

" _Yes_ , I recall that in the Tarasin Palace, you would not let the cooks put traps out for the rats," Ysmet drawled scathingly, "why, you even left little bits of _cheese_ on the floor for them!"

"Don't interrupt! Anyhow, _then_ I heard this sniffling sound and looked… and my dearest Dagnon was kneeling beside me, weeping also! I put my arm about him in commiseration, he gazed at me, I gazed back at him… and before we knew it, we were kissing! He was an excellent kisser, and though the moustache tickled a little, I soon got used to it… now, I rather like it."

"How lovely!" Ysmet remarked snidely, "and I am sure that ere long, the pair of you did more than just _kiss!_ "

Rashiel elbowed her oldest friend in the ribs, and took a pillow to the face for her trouble. "What of you and your Gleeman?" she demanded, "did you bed him the very moment you met, or did you wait an entire _hour_ to observe the decencies?!"

Ysmet smirked, leaning up on one elbow. With their menfolk away, rescuing the prisoners from the Isle of the Spire, the two close friends were sharing a bed for companionship, for pleasure also. It was a comfortable arrangement that they had fallen back into with the ease of long familiarity, continuing from where they had left off in their time together at the Palace in Ebou Dar, before Rashiel was spirited off to the White Tower and Ysmet ran away from home to avoid a detestable arranged-marriage.

"I'll tell you about meeting Roth on another occasion," Ysmet promised, "but it was _my_ asking you to relate how you met Dagnon which engendered that entire story…" she rolled her eyes, "…and an accursed _long_ story it was, too!"

Rashiel shrugged, and pouted.

"You know that I encountered Lord Dagnon before you did, in Illian, when he was there to take his Hunter's Oath?" Ysmet grinned. "He barged into me on a bridge whilst I was distracted by a vomiting Master Gleeman, and I near enough stuck my sword in him!"

"You never told me that!" Rashiel exclaimed.

"You never _asked!_ " Ysmet considered a moment, then added; "though to be fair, I suppose that I walked into him as much as he into me… he apologised profusely… your Gaidin really is enormously _polite_ for a Murandian!"

Rashiel nodded impatiently. "People are always telling him that. He's a bit of an aberration, really." She scowled. "And as for my tale that you find so tedious, I was about to say that I only told you the _short_ version! I did not even mention our time at Stedding Saishen, where the Ogier treated my wounds with a vile-smelling salve and Dagnon and I made love for the first time… I Bonded him as my Warder directly afterwards, at his request and my express desire. Of course, we had to go without the _stedding_ to do it, since the weaves don't work in there…"

"What of the Red Ajah rules about not taking a Gaidin?"

"What of them? Red traditions be cursed, I knew that I wanted Dagnon for my Warder the moment I set eyes upon him!"

"For a Warder… and more besides!" Ysmet commented, with a lewd grin. This time, it was she who was struck with a pillow.

" _Then_ , we travelled through the Ways to Tar Valon, where good old Renn Healed me, and made me promise to look after her strange pet whilst she was away."

"The _Ways?_ " Ysmet spluttered, "but they are a _myth_ , are they not?"

Rashiel touched the ivory-hilted marriage-knife hung about her neck, the only item that she was currently wearing. "The Ways are _real_ , I swear it upon my mother's spousal blade!"

Ysmet sniffed. "You really don't have the right to wear that," she pointed-out, then complacently touched her own bejewelled marriage-knife, hanging betwixt her breasts. Again, the only item _she_ was wearing. "Whereas, I _do_ ," Ysmet added, thinking with satisfaction of her romantic ship-board wedding, her handsome husband… and _not_ dwelling upon the fact that she had angrily sent him into danger simply because he possessed a _ter'angreal_ that rendered him invisible, and had not troubled to tell her of it!

"Oh, I'll make an honest man of Dagnon eventually," Rashiel muttered, with little in the way of conviction. She returned to her theme; "I never mentioned the Ways to Renn, since she planned to do likewise… she imagined that she would be the first Aes Sedai in many generations to travel the hidden paths of the Ogier, and I did not want to spoil it for her…"

"But how did you know which direction to take, to get to Tar Valon?"

"Oh, there was a particular _Alantin ti Avende_ maiden at Stedding Saishen, she was artistically inclined and drew a wonderful sketch of Dagnon and I in a delightful, arboreal setting…"

Ysmet snorted rudely.

"Huh! Anyway, she far preferred painting pictures of trees than people for some reason, and told us that she very much wished to visit the Tar Valon Grove in order to pursue her inclination… she defied the edicts of her Elders and agreed to lead us to the Island City Waygate. We should have become hopelessly lost without her." Rashiel smiled. "Dearest Soorla! A kind and sweet-natured girl, if one can use such a term of a female Ogier… I do hope that she enjoyed painting her precious trees in the Grove."

Ysmet shook her head slowly. "You always seem to meet the strangest folk on your travels… so what were the Ways _like?_ "

"Gloomy and depressing, almost as bad as _this_ place…" Rashiel gestured disparagingly, her serpent-ringed hand indicating the entirety of the Land of the Madmen.

Ysmet sighed, thinking with regret of her foundered ship. "I shall get us all home, somehow," she promised, then blinked, recollecting something. "Hold a moment… your interminable tale! The bit about the Black Ajah you experienced yourself, and I would assume that Dagnon told you of his own exploits prior to meeting you..?"

"He did. So did Soorla, sketching the woodsman and such."

"But what of the Myrddraal? How could you possibly know what the Lurks got up to when they arrived at the hunting-lodge to find the Darkfriends all dead?"

"Oh, I made that bit up."

" _What?_ "

"Artistic license, darling… your pretty husband is _always_ doing it!"

"Roth is a _Gleeman_ , he's _allowed_ to invent dramatic situations. You're an Aes Sedai, so _you_ aren't."

"Am too! Besides, I was only indulging in a little harmless speculation… unlike the imaginative Master Blucha, _I_ never claimed to see a bloody enormous great sea-monster!"

Ysmet sat up in bed, frowning. "Not _this_ again… Roth _said_ he witnessed the creature rising from the deep, then sounding again, and that is good enough for me!"

" _And_ me! Tis true! Which I did see the dread sea-monster also!" Ysmet scowled at Gen, who stood in the open doorway of her hut, unabashedly ogling them both. "I durst not tell of it afore," he continued, in his strange, Illian-flavoured accents, "for I were much afeared that you would all think me _mad!_ " Rashiel sniggered.

" _Gen!_ " Ysmet shouted angrily, "how many times do I have to tell you to _knock_ , you wind-cursed half-wit!" She hastily drew the sheet up to cover her nudity, though it was a little late for that.

Rashiel did not bother, but smiled at the leering intruder warmly. "Hello, Gen! What is afoot?"

Gen blinked, then looked down at his feet, mumbling; "it be that which I do stand upon."

Rashiel sighed. "Tis an _expression_ ," she explained.

"Tisn't!" Gen argued, "it do be my _foot!_ What of it, buxom Aes Sedai?"

"What do you _want_ , Gen?" Ysmet demanded.

Gen jerked a dirty thumb over his shoulder. "There do be some visitors here, asking to see thee Captain, the voluptuous Sister of the Tower in addition…" Gen's addled gaze drifted back toward Rashiel's breasts. She chuckled, and made no move to cover them.

" _Rashiel!_ " Ysmet hissed, disapprovingly, "do not encourage him!"

"Oh, I don't mind being admired," Rashiel remarked airily, sitting up in bed and swinging her legs over the side. "Especially since Gen is so refreshingly _honest_ about his lechery! Most men try to pretend they're _not_ staring when they quite obviously _are!_ " She yawned, then reached for her robe. "Visitors…" Rashiel's muffled voice speculated as she pulled the loose garment down over her head, "now I wonder who _they_ might be... more Aielmen, perhaps?"

Ysmet opened her mouth to say that she hoped not, but another voice interjected, softly spoken with a melodic accent; "nay, Windfinder. Five they are; two Warders, mayhap three, a dangerous Sharaman and in addition, a-"

"Raab!" Ysmet shouted, glaring at the Sea Folk outcast who now stood beside Gen in the doorway, "you too?" Raab opened his mouth but Ysmet over-rode him with ease; "Gen never knocks because he is a lunatic and cannot remember what he had for breakfast-"

"Unless it was _cheese!_ " Rashiel jested. Gen raised his eyes eagerly from his feet, then looked disappointed when there was no sign of his favourite food.

"Shut-up, Rashiel! Gen doesn't _know_ to knock upon a door for the aforementioned reasons, but what is _your_ excuse, Atha'an Miere?"

"The door stood open," Raab pointed-out sulkily, "tis Gen's fault and none of mine, Sailmistress…" He then raised a tattooed hand to shade his dark and shifty vision.

"Stop calling me that! I am a _Captain_ , not a… a…" Ysmet trailed-off. "What are you _doing_ , Raab, covering your eyes up like that?"

"I avert my gaze, Sailcaptain, for you are undressed!"

Ysmet realised that in her ire, she had let the sheet slip downwards somewhat. "Well, given your provenance, Sea Folk voyeur, I would presume that you have seen a pair of _these_ before," she grumbled, then raised her voice to an authoritarian quarterdeck bellow; "now get out, you pair of fools, _both_ of you! Tell our visitors that I shall receive them presently…" Chastened, Raab and Gen hastily turned to leave, managing to wedge themselves together in the narrow doorway. Rashiel laughed at the sight, waving sardonically at their struggling backs. Ysmet glowered at them; "and shut that bloody door, if you ever manage to get through it! These are my _private quarters,_ not flaming Mol Hara Square!" Rashiel grinned. Ysmet tried to glare at her, but could not help but grin herself. There was little enough amusement to be found in this savage place, after all… one might as well appreciate these little moments of absurdity.

After Ysmet had put on her shift and stockings, Rashiel helping her with the buttons on her green silk gown with its divided skirts, the two Ebou Dari females ventured outside; the Noblewoman stamping her feet to settle her calf-boots and buckling on her rapier, the Aes Sedai smoothing her maroon robe a little, but otherwise not troubling overly with her appearance. Whilst Ysmet continued to dress much as she had back in the Westlands, Rashiel had told her friend that she found the weather uncomfortably humid, even when compared with the heat of southern Altara… the thin, silken robe was her sole item of clothing, she had even started to go barefoot, as did the sailors.

Raab stood to one side, arms crossed, evidently sulking. Gen was capering nearby, performing a bizarre shuffling dance on the sand whilst whistling a sea-shanty. A handsome youth with very dark skin and almost black eyes, his face covered in swirling tattoos, was watching Gen curiously. Abruptly, he grinned, and began to clap his hands together in time with the tempo, urging Gen to greater efforts.

Ysmet blinked at this strange sight, then her gaze moved to the two brown-haired and unshaven, shabbily dressed young swordsmen who stood beside an ornate gold chest, chased with silver. She seen these identical lads before, in Illian… what were their names?

"Aebel!" Rashiel said to one, and "Blaek!" to the other.

The twins exchanged a mute glance, then he who had been addressed first muttered; "forgiveness, Rashiel Sedai, but I am actually _Blaek…_ "

"And I, _Aebel_ ," added his brother, whose left arm was supported by a grubby cloth sling.

"Sorry, boys!" Rashiel apologised, then narrowed her pale eyes. "You two pretty Oilfishers appear to be growing _beards_ again… Shrina won't like that!" The Twins rolled their eyes at each other, then rubbed their stubbled jaws self-consciously.

"I remember you now!" Ysmet exclaimed, "Shrina Sedai's matching Warders! We met at _Easing the Badger_ in the Perfumed Quarter of Illian, during the Feast of Teven… I recall that you tied Raab up and left him in the hayloft!" The Gaidin brothers nodded in the affirmative, then shifted their dark, unfriendly stares to the Sea Folk outcast, smiling coldly. Raab swallowed nervously. Ysmet's light brown eyes moved back to the dark, clapping youth. "Who is-?" she began to ask, then frowned. "Quit that bloody nonsense, Gen, it is giving me a headache!"

Gen obediently ceased his dancing and whistling, standing still, hands at his sides, projecting an air of innocence. The facially tattooed young man stopped clapping also and turned to Ysmet, smiling and performing a graceful and exotic bow that involved sweeping a hand forward from his brow as he bent forward. He straightened and announced something in a foreign, liquid speech. Ysmet's brow furrowed, she glanced at Rashiel, who shrugged and shook her head.

"What did he say?" Ysmet enquired of the twin Warders.

"We know not, Lady Ysmet…"

"…Hamadi speaks the language of Shara…"

"…which is unknown to us…"

"…but we think that-"

"He greets you, Sailmistress," Raab interrupted, "and calls down the blessings of the Spirits upon the Barbarian Chief, as he names you."

Ysmet blinked, assimilating this. She was not sure what to make of being called a 'barbarian' but she _was_ the chief around here, so that at least was accurate. Meanwhile, the Gaidin brothers were glaring at Raab, who smiled insolently back at them, like a cat that has just successfully stolen some cream from another cat, its sworn enemy…

"I did not know that you spoke the Sharan tongue, Raab," Rashiel commented.

Raab shrugged. "They call it Co'dansin, not-"

" _Co'dansin, yes!_ " agreed the youth, Hamadi, nodding vigorously.

" _Not_ Shara," Raab continued, raising his voice, "they refuse to speak the Vulgar, nor even the Old Tongue… you have to learn their lingo if you want to trade, Windfinder."

"Don't call me that!" Rashiel glanced at Aebel. "Is your arm broken, Aebel Gaidin?"

"It is, Rashiel Sedai."

"Well, I'll see what I can do, but I've never been very good at Healing… I can mend the bone, but it may hurt a bit…" Rashiel sashayed over to the Warders.

Raab sidled closer to Ysmet, lowering his voice conspiratorially; "have a care, your Ladyship… the Sharan fellow is _Ayyad_ , that's what those face-tattoos mean… he can almost certainly _channel!_ "

Ysmet frowned. " _Wonderful!_ " she growled, then her eyes moved to the gaudily decorated chest sitting on the sand. "What's in the box?" she wondered.

Blaek answered, turning away from his brother, Aebel, who was reluctantly presenting his injured arm for Rashiel's attention. "The Horn of T'oph, Lady Ysmet. Shrina found it in a ruined palace beside Lake Somal." His handsome features darkened with concern at mention of his captive Aes Sedai.

"The Horn of _what?_ "

"T'oph."

"Never heard of it… I thought your Aes Sedai was hunting for the Horn of Valere?"

Blaek shook his head sadly. "Misfortunately, a gambling Andorman found it first, him who we then named; 'Hornsneaker.' Shrina was very angry about it, she-"

" _Aaargh!_ "

Everyone stared at Aebel, who was now writhing upon the ground, Rashiel standing over him, wringing her hands. "I'm so sorry!" she cried.

The paroxysms that gripped Aebel faded swiftly and he rose unsteadily to his feet, assisted by his brother. He flexed his mended arm experimentally, then nodded, satisfied. "Thank you for the Healing, Rashiel Sedai."

"Oh dear… was it very painful?"

"Yes, Aes Sedai…"

Aebel glanced at Blaek, a private communication passing between them, then they spoke simultaneously; "but we have had _worse!_ "

Ysmet's eyes moved back to the golden chest. "So what does it _do_ , this other Horn?"

"It summons Sages, yes?" The voice spoke in the clipped, precise accents of Amadicia, and issued from a handsome, blue-eyed, blonde fellow in dusty garb, a Heron-mark blade sheathed at his back. He entered the rest of the way through the gate and bowed formally to Ysmet and Rashiel, who both eyed him appreciatively. "I have seen it!" he went on, "marvellous to behold! When Shrina sounds the Horn, Ghoetam and a host of the wise from every Age appear to advise her!" He shrugged. "Of course, she does not tend to _take_ that advice…" He glanced at the twin Warders. "No offence meant, Gaidin."

"None taken," Aebel and Blaek responded, at the same time, clearly having no illusions about the impulsive young Green Sister whom they served.

"Who are you?" Ysmet enquired of the newcomer. The young Amadici Blademaster bowed again, he seemed to have a penchant for it, declaring; "I have the honour to be the Lord Thaeus of House Desiama."

"Desiama?" Rashiel muttered, then her eyes widened. "Of course, you must be Ellyth's _brother!_ " She then scowled. "The _Whitecloak_ ," she added, pointedly.

Thaeus smiled, and Ysmet felt her heart flutter a little in response. It was not _fair_ , that a man should have a smile like that! She was a respectable, married woman now, if with a less-than-respectable Gleeman for a husband, and did not appreciate having her monogamy thus tested!

"I foreswore my Oaths to the Children of Light," Thaeus explained to Rashiel, "since after all, the Dragon has been reborn. 'He breaks all bonds, he unbinds all ties…' I am no longer a Lord-Lieutenant in the Legions…" he glanced at Rashiel's serpent-ring and raised an eyebrow. "May I know your name, Aes Sedai?"

"Rashiel Tamor," the former Red Sister responded, coldly.

This time, Lord Thaeus raised _both_ eyebrows. " _Trollop!_ " he declared, "my sister has oft spoken of you in her letters… she thought you a Darkfriend at first, but later revised her opinion, since she claimed that one sworn to the Shadow would have better manners!"

Rashiel frowned darkly, but then her full lips twitched and she threw back her head, laughing loudly. "Oh Ellyth…" she wheezed, "there really is no-one quite like you!"

Thaeus nodded. "Indeed there is not. As you must have heard, your fellow Sisters of the White Tower are in peril, Rashiel Sedai… tis imperative that we release them from the bondage of this Laughing God-"

" _Praise him!_ " Gen abruptly and surprisingly shouted, then put a guilty hand over his mouth while everyone stared at him curiously.

"That is Gen," Ysmet explained to Lord Thaeus, "ignore him, he isn't quite right in the head…"

"Is _anyone_ , in this insane land?" Thaeus wondered, "why, the first natives I encountered here, prior to making an attempt on my life, were about to eat somebody's _leg!_ "

"Eww!" exclaimed Rashiel, pulling a disgusted face.

Ysmet nodded grimly. She had seen worse than that, since being shipwrecked here. Recalling that the handsome former Whitecloak had introduced himself, after all, she raised her divided skirts slightly, performing a graceful curtsy, somewhat hampered by the rapier sheathed at her belt. "I am the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, and Captain of the _Queen Mab_ ," she stated smoothly, "though I scarcely may lay claim to that second title, given that my fine ship lies wrecked upon that wind-cursed reef over there…"

"His back may not be broken," Raab muttered, "and his hull seems intact…"

Ysmet scowled at Raab, they had argued this point before… "Why then do you not _swim_ out there and take a look, Sea Folk know-it-all?" she snapped, "I am sure that the lionfish will leave you be if you but explain to them that you are a skilled shipwright, and an ill-tasting one at that!" Raab blanched. "And cease calling my poor foundered ship ' _he!_ ' Tis named after a bloody _Queen_ , albeit a mythical one, so therefore tis a ' _she,_ ' irregardless of your quaint Atha'an Miere customs!"

"Am I _interrupting_ something?"

With the exception of the newcomers, everyone stared in surprise at the tall, russet-haired woman who stood framed in the gateway of the palisade, flanked by the two Aielmen who had given up the spear in favour of, respectively, both useful and pointless menial tasks. Pale, almost colourless eyes fixed themselves on Ysmet, before moving to Rashiel, taking note of her golden, Eternal Serpent ring.

"Honour to serve, Aes Sedai," the slender woman commented, in her oddly accented voice, not particularly sounding as if she meant it, though she inclined her head slightly in a gesture of mild respect. Rashiel blinked, then nodded back to her, eyes wide. Ysmet noted with a sense of profound unreality that the stranger's ears rose to abbreviated points, lying flat against the sides of her skull. Like those of Mab, Queen of the Fair Folk! Had her lost ship's namesake come to _visit_ them? That would make about as much sense as anything else that transpired in this mad place!

"What… who are you?" Ysmet managed to ask, touching the hilt of her rapier unconsciously. She had been in enough serious situations to know when someone was potentially dangerous, and this strange, fox-like female had the aspect of a killer.

The unearthly woman did not answer immediately, but stepped gracefully forward, the Aielmen – the big, quiet one and the red-eyed, boastful one – moving with her. Lord Thaeus walked over to join them, slipping an arm about the tall maiden's shoulders. She smiled up at him, then grinned at Ysmet, sharp teeth flashing in her pale face. "Introduce me, milord!" she commanded.

Thaeus complied. "Lady Ysmet, Rashiel Sedai; this is Feir-called-Fourthborn, sister to N-"

"Goddess!" shouted Gen, who had been staring at Feir raptly ever since she appeared, "Fox Queen!" He stumbled forward and threw himself to the sand at Feir's bare, long-nailed feet, arms stretched out, uttering a string of devotions in what sounded like the Old Tongue.

Ysmet sighed. Signing Gen on as her Guide had seemed like a good idea at the time, given that he was the only person in the entirety of the Westlands remotely familiar with their mysterious destination… but then, to those ancient, Age of Legends Aes Sedai, opening the Bore into the Dark One's prison had doubtless seemed like a good idea at the time, also.

Feir raised an auburn eyebrow, glancing down at the eccentric old castaway abasing himself before her. "Is that you, Gen?" she enquired.

Gen raised a tear-stained face from the sand, his wind-burned features expressing insane joy and awe. "Yes, Goddess, tis I!"

"You look _terrible_ ," Feir observed, adding; "where the _bajad drovja_ have you been, Gen? I thought you dead."

"Oh, I _was_ dead!" Gen agreed, cooperatively, "I did go out fishing one day, and did get blown off course by unseasonable gales for weeks and weeks… and then, I did die!"

"Why are you talking funny?" Feir wondered.

Gen ignored the question. "Some strange folk out looking for their oilfishes, whatever _they_ be, did find me…" he pointed at the twin brothers from Mayene, "…they did look and speak like _them_ , in fact… they took me to the lands of the dead, up in the cold north where there be this white thing called 'snow' and I did learn to speak as the Illianers do…"

"Is this going to take much longer?" Feir muttered, impatiently.

"…but then, the beauteous Captain Ysmet did take me with her, back to my home… where I did live again!" Having ended his story on a decidedly triumphant note, Gen then buried his face in the sand once more, muttering indistinctly in the Old Tongue.

"That is quite a tale!" Feir commented. Ysmet approached warily, Rashiel following. "What know you of Gen?" Feir asked them.

"Only that he is completely _mad!_ " Ysmet answered brusquely.

Feir laughed, an odd, high-pitched yipping sound, that startled them both. "Well, he _would_ be," she then observed, "after all, he is _souvraniene_ , a male-channeler! Or at least, he _was_... Gen can't touch the Source anymore, he burnt the ability out of himself by doing something incredibly stupid!" Feir eyed Gen with affection. "Didn't you, Gen?"

Gen raised his sandy face. "Aye, that I did!" he confirmed.

"Tried to use the Portal Stone all on your own, you raving idiot!" Feir laughed, patting Gen on the head.

"Tis true! The witches from the darkling caves did tell me that the Everstone did lead to other worlds, and I did wish to see 'em…" Gen frowned. "Never did, though," he added, wistfully.

Feir shrugged. "Well, you're lucky to be alive, and at least you've had an adventure, going back to my old homeland and such…"

"Tis right good to see you again, my Queen!" Gen cried, continuing his benedictions.

Feir frowned and hauled Gen to his feet. "Stop that _k'jasic_ grovelling, it looks silly… and cease calling me by those empty titles, you know that I don't care for them."

Gen ducked his head. "Forgive me, Fourthborn," he stammered.

Ysmet eyed Feir cautiously. "What _are_ you, Feir? I mean you no insult, but you clearly aren't quite human..?"

Feir shook her head. "Indeed not… and I would not wish to be! I am a Construct, like my Brother, and his Brothers before him. We were created at the end of the Age of Legends, to make war on the Shadow. Which we did very well, or rather _they_ did… I was never really afforded the opportunity… I mean to rectify that, and soon." She smiled a fierce, eager smile. " _Tarmon Gai'don_ is coming..."

"Feir serves the Light as readily as do we all," Thaeus explained, "she has powers and abilities much akin to those of her sibling, Naythan Shieldman."

" _N'aethan_ ," Feir corrected, and Thaeus glanced at her apologetically. She smiled, and winked at him; he smiled back.

"Naythan… Shieldman?" Ysmet blinked, feeling as though she had been left quite far behind current events, with no hope of ever catching up. "Who is he?"

Thaeus shrugged. "My sister's new Warder," he revealed, then grinned. "Though I think me the relationship goes a little beyond _that_ …"

"Hold!" Rashiel cried, "Ellyth's _new_ Warder? What of Atual Gaidin?"

After an uncomfortable pause, the Twins spoke, regret in their voices, but pride also.

"Atual Aendwyn fell in battle with Shadowspawn…"

"…protecting his Aes Sedai to the last…"

"…he died a glorious death…"

"…and his name lives on in our memories."

The Gaidin brothers glanced at each other, then added; "no Warder of the White Tower could ask for more."

Rashiel's face fell. "Oh no… I _liked_ Atual, I really did… what a terrible shame…" She sniffed, blinking back tears, and Ysmet put a comforting arm around her shoulders, her eyes still fixed on Feir with fascination. Gen had called her a Queen… _could_ she be Mab..?

Feir grinned. " _I see a question in your eyes!_ " she told Ysmet, in a strange, whispery voice, a little like that of a fussy old man…

Ysmet raised her eyebrows in surprise, but did not let Feir's odd manner put her off. This was most definitely a mystery to be solved, and she had always loved seeking solutions to such conundrums… "You come from the Age of Legends?" she asked, softly.

Feir shook her head, her russet mane of hair sweeping back and forth against her shoulders. "Not really. The Last Age ended with the War, and I was born in the Light some fifty years after it ended... but I'm not so old as I sound!" Feir grinned again, exposing sharp teeth briefly, but then her demeanour became serious. "Tell me… um..?"

"Ysmet."

"Ysmet… tell me, do you know what a Stasis Box is?"

"I do not."

"No, I don't suppose that you would… well, my Brother and I were both inured inside such devices, they're sort of like big _ter'angreal_ that work but once… we were held in suspension whilst the World of the Wheel turned outside, for more than three millennia. Time had no hold upon us as we slept our long sleep, awaiting the approach of the Last Battle when we would arise from our dormant state to fulfil Father's plan."

Ysmet felt as though her head were spinning. First the Aielmen, then the tattooed Ayyad, Shrina's twin Warders, the former Whitecloak and now, this Feir person, this 'Fox Queen' as Gen named her… what _further_ bizarre strangers would intrude upon her camp?

Rashiel glanced up, wiping at her pale eyes. "Does this have anything to do with that crystal object Ellyth was so secretive of? _That_ might also have been a _ter'angreal_ …"

"Possibly, Aes Sedai," Feir conjectured, adding; "please to describe it?"

"Well, I only got a few glimpses, Ellyth was very cagey about showing it to anyone, but I recall that it was a sort of flattened sphere with a dozen facets around the edges…"

Feir's eyes lit up. "The Locator-Key!" she exclaimed, "why, yes, that is _exactly-_ "

" _Feir!_ " cried a high-pitched and breathless voice, "is it really you?!"

Ysmet stared, wide-eyed, with a combination of consternation and resignation as _yet another_ bizarre stranger intruded upon her unquiet camp! _This_ time, it was a wild, pretty, ash-blonde maiden clad in a brief, doeskin tunic, stumbling through the gate in the palisade, a large, white wolf limping at her heels. She looked extremely weary and somewhat panic-stricken… and her eyes _glowed_ in the evening gloom, shining with a bright golden hue! _What now?_ Ysmet wondered, exasperated, speculating on whether anyone would notice if she absented herself from these chaotic proceedings and went straight back to bed, pulling the covers up over her head?! Certainly, it was a more than tempting prospect…

Feir turned to greet the new-arrival, delight and concern vying for possession of her foxy features. "Tamei!" she called, then frowned. "What is wrong, girl?" Tamei fell into Feir's arms, clearly prey to the exhaustion of someone who has run far and fast. Feir held the wild-looking maiden upright whilst Ysmet watched, wondering what new development this portended. Worrying about Roth, also, he and the others should have been back by now…

"The bad men!" Tamei managed to gasp, "the evil ones in the red masks… besieging the _stedding_ … Stedding Dashai, it is called… the Ogier Elders sent me to fetch help, the wolves showed me the way…" _Wolves?_ Ysmet wondered, staring at the snow-white wolf crouched at Tamei's feet. It appeared to be hurt, there was blood staining the pale fur on its left foreleg. Rashiel, ever one to aid injured beasts, moved towards it solicitously, but the wolf growled at her warningly, baring its sharp teeth. Tamei glanced at the lupine beast, muttering; "let her help you, Ice," and it subsided, allowing Rashiel to lay healing hands upon its injury. "Ice was bitten by one of those nasty dogs," Tamei explained to Feir, "we had to run like deer to escape them… Mitsu told me to look for her companions, we tracked you all the way along the beach from where the dead Hawx lay…" she smiled up at Feir exultantly, "but I did not think to find _you_ in this camp, Feir! I thought you were yet in the Wastelands."

Feir shook her head. "I tired of that grim place." The she-wolf howled in protest as Rashiel's painful Healing weave settled into her leg, then subsided. Tamei patted her wolfish friend soothingly between the ears, her golden eyes still fixed on Feir, who added; "you _know_ why."

"I do." Tamei looked about the watching, assembled Warders, Whitecloaks, Sea Folk and Sailors, seemingly searching for someone in particular. "Where is your nasty Gholam?"

"That is an excellent question…" Feir glanced apologetically at Thaeus, then eyed Ysmet. "I must leave you all awhile, duty calls. Though I have had little to do with them, Father made me promise to always aid the _Alantin ti Avende_ in times of need. When my Brother returns, kindly inform him to seek me at Stedding Dashai, close by to the _Collam Aman._ " Feir leaned up to kiss Lord Thaeus in fond farewell, though he did not accept this.

"If you are going to this _stedding_ then I am coming with you, Feir!" Thaeus protested.

Feir shook her head resolutely. "You cannot, milord. I must needs move fast, faster than you can possibly keep pace with… and there is another reason why this particular fight is not for you…" she lowered her voice, directing a meaningful glance at the young Amadici Lord "…the Family Curse that you told me about, remember?"

"What of it?" Thaeus muttered, sulkily.

Feir sighed. "These men in the red masks…"

" _Evil_ men," Tamei growled, correcting Feir.

"Evil men, then… I have encountered them before. They can _channel_ , milord, and powerfully too. They are a far more dangerous enemy than those poor, confused Madmen whom I deal with on occasion… I was made to counter such a menace, you were not. And in any case, it would not be wise for you to face them, Thaeus, nor Hamadi either… they might well influence you, even gain control over you. They possess ways and means, and have been personally taught ancient skills by their Laughing God."

" _Curse him!_ " muttered Tamei. Feir chuckled.

While Lord Thaeus frowned unhappily, seeming to reluctantly accept that he could not go with Feir, the tall, red-haired, fox-like woman ruffled Tamei's short, spiky hair. "Still the tiny termagant, eh?" she observed.

Tamei grinned up at Feir. "You and your long words, Feir!" she complained, "I'm not going to even agree with you about that one 'til I know what it bloody _means!_ "

"Very wise of you, little wolf-sister… oh, and _you_ can't come with me either."

Tamei looked scandalised. " _What?_ How will you know how to find-"

"I can locate the _stedding_ easily enough, that is hardly a problem."

"Then why-?"

"Because you're _exhausted_ , girl, you've been running for a night and a day, haven't you? Ice too… how will you be able to keep up with me?"

Tamei scowled, then turned to Rashiel. "Aes Sedai?"

"Yes, Tomee?"

" _Tamei!_ "

"Tamei. Indeed. What can I do for you?"

"You can channel strength into me! Ice too!" Tamei considered a moment, then grudgingly added the words; "if you please."

Rashiel blinked. "I've only ever done that with horses," she explained, "I've never tried a wolf… and I really don't think that it should be done to a human…" She took note of the unusual shade of Tamei's eyes… "you… you _are_ human, are you not?"

"Yes, of course!" Tamei snapped impatiently, "and the witches of this land channel strength into their servants all the time… it's perfectly safe!"

"Well, I don't know…" Rashiel prevaricated, glancing at Ysmet, who shook her head doubtfully.

" _Please?_ " Tamei whined, "there is a person at the _stedding_ who is very special to me, I must see them again, and soon!"

"Would that be this 'Mitsu' you mentioned?" Feir enquired, with a sly smile.

"Yes! Even her!"

Feir sighed, then glanced at Rashiel. "Kindly do as the wolf-sister asks, Aes Sedai. Channel strength into them both. I shall take responsibility."

Rashiel hesitated, then nodded unwillingly. "The wolf first, I think," she muttered.

"Ice! Her name is Ice!" Tamei insisted.

"Shut-up, Tamei!" Feir snapped, "this woman is a _real_ Servant of All, come from far away where they still have a Hall of sorts, I am told… she is _not_ one of those addled, witchy impostors of yours… so show some respect!"

Tamei blushed. "Sorry, Feir. Sorry, Aes Sedai. Sorry, everyone else."

Feir smiled, and patted Tamei approvingly on the back. Tamei grinned at her. Feir then glanced at Lord Thaeus, who was watching her bleakly, and settled into his arms, leaning her head on his shoulder. He sighed mournfully.

Rashiel sniffed dismissively, then knelt gracefully beside the crouching she-wolf, who watched her suspiciously with cold, yellow eyes that were much akin to those of Tamei, Ysmet noted. "If you bite me, I shall turn you into a _rug!_ " Rashiel hissed, then laid hands gingerly upon the lupine creature's furry back. The wolf shifted a little, but under Tamei's cautionary stare, remained compliant. Presumably, Rashiel yet held _saidar_ from Healing the beast, she now cast the complex flows that had only ever been used on the denizens of the Tower stables before… as the strength weaves settled into the she-wolf, Ice made a surprised whuffing sound, her tongue lolling out, then rose to her paws, seeming to tremble with pent-up energy.

"That's amazing!" Tamei enthused, "much better than anything those crazy witches can do! Ice looks like she can run all the way south to the ice-mountains and back again!" Rashiel exchanged a wry glance with Ysmet as she rose. "Now do me!" Tamei demanded, stepping lithely forward. Feir made a warning, growling sound. Tamei blushed again. "I mean, if it's not too much trouble?" she mumbled, abashed.

Rashiel sighed, and placed her hands to either side of Tamei's ash-blonde, close-cropped locks. "I am really only supposed to channel this weave into my Warder-"

"Though you really aren't supposed to _have_ a Warder!" Ysmet observed, gazing innocently up at the darkening sky.

Rashiel scowled. "My _Warder_ , I say, and then only in times of great exigency!" She fixed Tamei with a serious, pale-eyed stare. "This could kill you, girl," she warned.

Tamei returned Rashiel's stare boldly. "I care not! What is life without risk? I _must_ return to Stedding Dashai, I promised Mitsu that I would come back to her as soon as I could…" She smiled at Feir. "With reinforcements! What _luck_ that you were here, Feir… why, I almost feel sorry for those red-masked madmen!"

Feir eyed Thaeus, who smiled also, though with a more melancholy aspect to the expression. "Well, there are madmen and there are madmen," she commented, "but I shall do my best to save the _stedding_ … it _is_ the last one left, after all."

"The Ogier told me that the others all fell long before you came to this Land," Tamei observed, then turned her golden-eyed gaze back on Rashiel. "I stand ready, Aes Sedai… kindly restore my strength, that I may run like a wolf!" Ice threw back her head and howled enthusiastically.

Rashiel sighed, then channeled.

Later, Ysmet and Lord Thaeus stood up on the parapet, watching as Feir loped away toward the forest, running swiftly, with graceful assurance. She had changed her clothes, shedding the ragged dress in favour of some dark britches and a darker shirt that had belonged to one of the slighter sailors, lost in the wreck. "Horrid things, lionfish," Feir had observed, whilst putting on the dead man's garb. She had about as much modesty as Rashiel, Ysmet considered, _less_ even… had thought nothing of stripping to the skin in front of various male sailors, Warders and Gen, whatever _he_ counted as… and that red tattoo etched into the pale skin over her heart… what _was_ that? Ysmet hoped that she would soon meet this 'Naythan Shieldman' if only to have some point of comparison with his eldritch sister… was he as strange as her? Or stranger, even? _Were_ the Fair Folk real?

Rashiel had gone to lay down, weary from her various channeling exertions. The others had dispersed also, but for the twin Warders and Hamadi, who were ensconced in Gen's noisome hut, making plans for the rescue of their womenfolk. Raab had been enlisted as a reluctant translator, so that they could attempt to understand each other. Some hope!

When she reached the tree-line, Feir turned and raised a long-nailed hand in farewell. Tamei and her four-legged friend, the she-wolf Ice, had already disappeared into the forest, scouting on ahead, the renewed strength coursing through their bodies giving them the wherewithal to do so. Thaeus lifted a hand in response, and after a moment's hesitation, Ysmet waved too. "What will you do when you get to the _stedding?_ " Lord Thaeus called out to the inhuman entity who was clearly become his lover of late… they had kissed at some length before finally parting company. Lingering to one side, trying not to stare, Ysmet had felt like the veritable gooseberry!

"I shall do as I was _created_ to do!" Feir answered.

"And what is _that?_ " Ysmet shouted.

Even from a distance, they could see Feir's predatory grin flash in the gloom. She turned and slipped silently into the dark forest, her final response drifting down to them on the cold, night air.

"Why, I shall make attempt to _kill_ the Laughing God!"

* * *

The _Stormchaser_ wallowed upon the flat surface of the Great Southern Ocean, sails flapping impotently in the fitful breeze. Duadh din Retif Blue Ring stood in his preferred place up on the foredeck, leaning on the bowsprit, his colourful parrot perched upon his bare shoulder, onyx eyes fixed on an indistinct beige stripe that stretched the length of the southernmost horizon. _Land._ It had been long since they made landfall, their slow journey down to the far south had lasted near a full year. It would have been well to call at his home-port on _Aile Shadar_ , one of the hidden harbours of the Clan Waketa community concealed within the watery maze of the Smoking Islands… the islet where Duadh had been born and was first taught the ways of the Shadow. But it could not be. He had a couple of Shorebound passengers aboard, outsiders, for all that they were Friends of the Dark like himself. It was death to reveal the sacrosanct docks of the Waketa to anyone not of this Shadow-sworn Clan... and a particularly horrible death at that.

Duadh well-knew that he was a fearsome fighter, who oft inspired terror in others… but then, few of his numerous victims had ever met his _mother._ He could not think of Nacheta din Retif Sea Serpent without shuddering slightly. The notorious Wavemistress of Clan Waketa tended to have that effect on people… and Duadh had no wish to dwell on what this horrifying Matriarch would do to her least-favourite son should he convey Shorebound strangers to one of their secret ports.

The Wavemistress Nacheta had birthed several children by differing sires, most of whom had not lived long enough to see them born, and she had personally murdered three of her offspring for various transgressions. Duadh did not much care about this, his were far from an affectionate people, but he had no wish to share the dread fate of these unfortunate siblings. Particularly his older brother Drinagh, who he had always hated… the fool had lost his ship and much of his crew in a needless battle with the storm-cursed Takana, then paid a heavy price for his failure. But at least the hungry sharks to whom the unfortunate Drinagh had been fed, piece by piece, had presumably been content with the way things turned out. One person's loss was nearly always someone else's gain, in Duadh's experience, which when it came to matters of mortality, was considerable.

A light footfall on the deck behind, the muted scrape of leather on wood, and Duadh's grip tightened on his deadly axe, though he did not trouble to turn around. Whoever it was clearly wore shoes of some kind, which meant that it could be only one person, since the crew all went barefoot and the other Shorebound aboard favoured the soft boots of an Aielman, moving soundlessly at all times.

"Come to greet the night, 'prentice?" Duadh enquired sardonically, his dark gaze yet fixed on the land ahead, which seemed close enough to touch, but in their current becalmed state, might as well have been on the far side of the world.

A sniff of disapproval came from behind Duadh, then Irmilla Nadona joined him at the rail, a fringed parasol propped on one smooth shoulder, shielding her from the sun's rays, which oft became more fierce in the eventide. The glamorous Darkfriend channeler stared hungrily at their destination… of all those aboard, she clearly wished to set foot ashore the most. Irmilla wore a garish silk skirt dyed with a myriad of swirling colours, in addition to the tooled leather sandals that had betrayed her identity. Her top half was quite bare, in keeping with the Atha'an Miere customs followed by the women of the crew, and Duadh noted that over the course of their long voyage, Irmilla's coppery, Domani complexion had tanned considerably, that she was now almost as dark as a Tairen, if not quite so dark as himself.

" _Squaaa!_ " Duadh's parrot squawked, cocking its head to one side and peering at the Shorebound female insolently. " _Harlot!_ " it added, rudely.

Irmilla glared at the brightly-plumed talking bird with loathing. " _You_ taught the beastly creature to say that, Duadh!" she accused.

"I did not," Duadh lied smoothly, "he must have overheard it, somewhere…"

" _Strumpet!_ " screeched the parrot. " _Squaaa! Trull!_ "

Irmilla snarled and took a vengeful swipe at the offending bird with her furled parasol, but it was familiar with her violent ways and ducked its colourful head, avoiding the blow. The parrot then launched itself into the air and flapped up to perch on the safety of the foremast, beyond reach of retribution. Irmilla glared up at it, then shook her head angrily. The bright southern sunset reflected off something on her cheek that flashed, something golden. Duadh peered closer at it, and scowled, disapprovingly. Seemingly, in addition to her earrings, the foolish Shorebound Apprentice had added a nose-ring and had also acquired a thin gold chain that linked them, bedecked with the tiny medallions that had caught the fading light.

"You have not the right to wear that," Duadh grumbled.

Irmilla sneered at him. "I do! Am I not Windfinder of this ship?" She had once disliked that term, but had developed a yen for it in consequence of their long voyage.

" _Of course you are not, Shorebound witch!_ " Duadh refuted, scathingly, "are you Atha'an Miere? What is your salt-name? Where are your Clan tattoos?" He tapped the virulent, eight-tentacled sea-creature inked into his chest emphatically. "May it please the Dark, you can ape our ways and fashions all you like, but you will _never_ be one of us, one of the Sea Folk!" Duadh's eyes had strayed unbidden to Irmilla's firm, bare breasts whilst he conducted his rant, and now snapped back up to her face. The accursed flighty 'prentice had noticed this and was smiling slyly at him. Were it not for the fact that Irmilla could easily turn him inside-out with the One Power, Duadh might well have slapped her at this point… still, in a quiet moment, he would teach his parrot further insulting terms to call her. It amused him to do so, and there had been little-enough amusement on this ill-fated voyage, but for the fight with the strangers upon the Aryth Ocean, many months previously and half a world away…

The unknown enemy had been sailing in a big, broad-beamed ship with ribbed sails that was unfamiliar to Duadh and his Clan Waketa crew. The strange craft had altered course upon sighting them and attacked the _Stormchaser_ without provocation, giving no quarter… and receiving none, either. The leashed woman on board the enemy ship, stationed up on the quarterdeck with another woman linked to her, had hurled several fireballs at them, ruining Duadh's best sails and much angering him, since quality canvass was expensive and probably hard to come by where they were going...

Proving her worth for a change, Irmilla Nadona had dealt with the enemy channeler extremely gruesomely… the _Stormchaser_ had then closed with the foe amidst a hail of hurled ropes and grappling-hooks and Duadh had led his howling crew onto the decks of the enemy vessel. The oddly-armoured soldiers aboard had put up a respectable resistance, but a Clan Waketa boarding-party in the full spate of bloodlust was difficult to defeat, to put it mildly, and soon enough the decks were awash with the stranger's gore.

Duadh grinned at the pleasant memory, gold teeth flashing in his dark, brutal face. A fine engagement, though he had lost some good people to the unknown enemy… and in their enthusiasm for killing, his crew had neglected to take any prisoners to be used later, for recreational torture. After replenishing their supplies from the captured ship's stores, Duadh had ordered the craft burned down to the waterline; an offering to the Father of Storms.

"Why are you grinning like that, Duadh?" Irmilla wished to know, adding; "you're thinking about something _horrid_ , aren't you?"

"I was recalling the fight with the strangers, Windfinder," Duadh answered absently.

"Yes, it _was_ rather fun, I can now finally say that I have taken part in a nautical battle… I wonder who that drab woman in the silver collar was, some sort of foreign Aes Sedai?" Irmilla recollected, then smiled triumphantly; "and you just called me _Windfinder!_ "

Duadh scowled. "I was being sarcastic!"

"You would not know sarcasm if it bit you upon the rump, Duadh! I _am_ a bloody Windfinder!"

"If you _are_ a Windfinder, then _find_ me some accursed _wind!_ " Duadh shouted angrily, waving his axe at the listless sails to illustrate his point.

Now, it was Irmilla's turn to scowl. "I _explained_ it, you Atha'an Miere idiot, and I deliberately used _short words!_ There _isn't_ any wind, something happened to the weather yesterday, something big…"

"This again!" Duadh muttered, contemptuously.

"I tell you, an enormous quantity of _saidar_ was being channeled, far to the north, affecting the climate… and _that_ was when the trade-wind died, leaving us becalmed."

Duadh snorted disparagingly, then felt eyes on him and glanced over his broad shoulder. Various members of his crew, dark-skinned, bare-chested men and women, large tattoos of predatory sea-creatures decorating their torsos, had paused in their varied duties to stare curiously at the arguing pair up on the foredeck, their attention doubtless attracted by Duadh's raised voice. He did not often shout, he did not _need_ to. But to finally be within sight of their destination and then to lose the wind… it was frustrating in the extreme.

Duadh narrowed his eyes slightly, and his people lowered their staring gazes, hurriedly resuming their tasks. Most of them were blood-relations of his, to one degree or another, but all knew that this would not prevent him from killing them, if need be. Discipline amongst the Waketa was harshly enforced, and there were no excuses for failure.

Up on the quarterdeck, Duadh's cousin, Cirla din Rieta Swordfish, stood at the wheel, her customary station, dark eyes fixed on the diminished horizon to the south. Abruptly, the hatch below swung open and a tall, red-veiled man clad in the _cadin'sor_ stepped unsteadily out onto the main deck; soft, laced boots on his feet, a _shoufa_ wrapped about his head.

Duadh's eyes narrowed further. Irmilla turned to look, and frowned.

"I thought you said the Aielman was bed-ridden?" Duadh muttered, accusingly.

"He _was,_ " Irmilla hissed, then lowered her voice as the other Shorebound passenger, the Shadow-Turned Samma N'Sei, approached them, feet unsure even on the gently rocking deck. "This voyage has really taken its toll, there were times when I thought he would actually _die_ from sea-sickness, but…" Irmilla trailed-off.

"What do you suppose is _wrong_ with him?" Duadh asked quietly, noting the way his crew assiduously avoided the Eye Blinder as he moved haltingly past them. There was little in life that made a Waketa nervous, but the Aielmen certainly managed it. Some said the Samma N'Sei was bad luck to have aboard, worse ill-fortune than killing an albatross or whistling for wind, and they would have thrown him overboard long since, had they dared.

Irmilla was shaking her head slowly back and forth. "I just don't _know_ ," she murmured, "I have Delved him several times, even tried Healing, though I'm not very good at it." Frustration filled Irmilla's voice; "if only the _Mistress_ were here, _she_ might know…"

"Could it be the Taint?" Duadh wondered, warily watching the Aielman approach.

"I do not think so… he should be protected from _that_ , as the male Dreadlords were in the Trolloc Wars… not to mention the men amongst the Chosen…"

"Well, there is definitely _something_ amiss with that storm-cursed savage," Duadh speculated, thinking out loud, "mayhap I should give him to the salt..?"

Irmilla rolled her eyes skywards, clearly exasperated. " _My name is Duadh din Ratfish Octopus-Features and I just looove to drown people!_ " she growled mockingly, imitating his deep voice and Sea Folk accents. Duadh scowled darkly. Irmilla continued in more serious tones; "the Mistress sent the Samma N'Sei along because he might prove useful, unlikely as that now seems…" she shrugged, then continued tartly; "Duadh, She Who Summons the Gales will scarcely thank you for sacrificing her armsman to your precious Stormfather!"

"Perhaps she would not… but I do _not_ have octopus-features, whatever _they_ are!"

"No, you are right, octopuses tend to be handsomer…" Irmilla's large, dark eyes were on the Aielman, who had nearly reached the foredeck. Her brow furrowed with concern and she lowered her voice further; "his peculiar manner… it could perhaps be..?"

"What?" Duadh prompted impatiently, "it could be _what?_ "

"I know little of such matters, but the Mistress once told me that sometimes, the process of being Turned to the Shadow does not always go so well as it should. That there are occasional side-effects… complications…"

Duadh frowned. The Samma N'Sei leader Zaradin had not come with them on this voyage, but had sent one of his people, the one that had not gone through the Portal Stone with the Tinker assassin and his scurvy band of brigands… both of these lesser Eye Blinders had been forcibly Turned to the Shadow, and as a result, Duadh did not entirely trust them. Ever since he had been old enough to speak, to think, he had pledged allegiance to the Father of Storms deep within his heart and soul. He did not need a score of Black Ajah and Myrddraal to compel him to his duty with some fell wreaking of the One Power, for he proudly served the Great Lord of the Dark by choice and tradition. His Clan, the Waketa, had remained loyal to the Shadow for more than two-thousand years, had kept faith that entire time, suffering at the hands of the other Atha'an Miere Clans as a result.

Duadh opened his mouth to demand of Irmilla what she meant by 'complications' but a shadow fell over them and a muffled voice intruded; "I see you, Wise One's Apprentice! I see you also, Boat-Chief!"

" _Sailmaster!_ " Duadh snarled at the tall, cadaverous Aielman who loomed over him, unfocused blue eyes staring above a red veil, "and the _Stormchaser_ is no _boat_ , tis a _ship!_ "

The Samma N'Sei did not seem to have heard, he tugged down his red veil, revealing a gaunt, bony face, a wide mouth full of pointed, filed teeth. He surveyed the distant landmass with satisfaction. "A fine evening," he commented, to no-one in particular.

"Have you finally found your sea-legs, Shadowrunner?" Duadh enquired brusquely, but the Eye Blinder was not attending, continuing to gaze vacantly upon the Land of the Madmen.

Duadh eyed Irmilla pointedly, she sighed, then cleared her throat loudly. "Medelin?" she said to the Samma N'Sei, carefully. He did not react. "Medelin…" she repeated. Still nothing. " _Medelin!_ " Irmilla shouted. The tall Aielman turned to look down at her blankly.

Duadh imagined that Irmilla flinched slightly beneath that inhuman regard. He did not like meeting the gaze of one who had been Turned either, though it did not scare him. He was afeared of _nothing_ … with the obvious exception of his mother, naturally. But those empty, green eyes of Medelin's; whatever he had once been was no longer there, and something else was looking out at the world from within him… something unimaginably wicked, evil beyond compare…

"Medelin, don't you think that you had better go back below, return to your cabin?" Irmilla was suggesting, "remember, you have not been well."

Duadh thought of some of the things the troublesome Aielman had got up to of late, almost setting his ship aflame to name but one, and decided that Irmilla must be erring on the extreme side of caution with her bland assessment. The Samma N'Sei smiled widely, further exposing his horrific, sharpened teeth. It troubled Duadh that Medelin oft removed his veil, since it had been explained to him by the humourless Tinker assassin that the Eye Blinders usually did this only when they were about to kill. But it seemed more the case that Medelin wished to speak in a discernible fashion, rather than indistinctly, through a layer of cloth.

"I am fine," Medelin stated, in his clear, oddly-accented voice, "and I should now tell you both that I am no longer called 'Medelin' but have taken another name." The tall Samma N'Sei abruptly made a bizarre finning motion with his hands, causing Duadh to grip the haft of his axe tighter, and judging from the intent look on her face, he presumed that Irmilla was holding _saidar_ … "My _new_ name is 'Mastri,'" the Eye Blinder revealed, "which in the Old Tongue means 'fish.' For do I not travel upon the seas, as do the fishes?" He laughed loudly, slapping his thigh and shaking his head back and forth, in appreciation of his own wit.

Duadh exchanged a meaningful glance with Irmilla. "That is a… _fine_ new title for you, Med… _Mastri_ ," Irmilla commented, diplomatically, "but I really _must_ insist that you return to your bunk for the time being, if only for the good of your health…"

"But I feel much better now," Medelin-become-Mastri insisted… and then promptly leant forward and vomited onto Irmilla's feet. She shrieked with disgust, hopping back, while the Samma N'Sei straightened and casually wiped his mouth clean with his red veil.

"Mother's milk in a bloody bucket!" Irmilla cursed, " _look_ what you've done to my best sandals… it's all over my flaming _feet_ , you sickening savage!"

Duadh was more concerned with the state of his deck… but for that, he might have quite enjoyed Irmilla's extreme discomfiture.

"Forgiveness," Mastri muttered, "I am a poor sailor and my habitual sickness must have been caused, as ever, by the untoward motion of the waves…"

" _What_ burning waves, you cretin?!" Irmilla demanded furiously, "we're _becalmed_ , in case you hadn't noticed!"

"Oh, I can do something about that," Mastri offered, glancing up at the listlessly flapping sails and narrowing his empty, green eyes… he gestured, and immediately, a strong gust sprang up from the north, swelling the canvas and providing impetus to the two-masted ship. Gradually, they gained headway and Duadh could almost imagine that the blur on the horizon indicating land was already perceptibly closer than it had been before Mastri's intervention. Duadh bellowed a few curt orders to his crew and immediately, dark-skinned, tattooed Atha'an Miere were scrambling aloft, ascending the rigging to set more sail.

"How in the seven seas did you _do_ that?" Irmilla demanded of Mastri, whilst pouring a bucket of seawater over her soiled feet. Her sandals, she had gingerly removed and dropped regretfully into the Ocean. "You are an _Aielman_ – and a bloody _awful_ one at that! – what know _you_ of weather channeling?"

Mastri shrugged his bony shoulders. He had been seasick for a long time on the voyage, had spurned food a great deal… and as a result, was somewhat skeletal. But a strange power, a formidable strength, seemed to burn within him.

Irmilla persisted; "how did you know how to do that, to raise the wind? Whenever I tried it, nothing happened... why did you succeed where I failed?"

"Oh, I am more powerful than you, Wise One's Apprentice," Mastri responded, in a far-away voice. "Much more. And as for the _wind_ , the man in the mask showed me how to summon it." That was all the answer he seemed prepared to give. Irmilla glanced at Duadh with confusion; he tapped his finger against his shaven skull, meaningfully.

"What man would that be?" Irmilla asked carefully, " _what_ mask?"

Mastri blinked, glancing at her. "Why, the short fellow who wears a metal face fashioned in the likeness of the Wetlands fox… he oft visits me of late… he walks in my unquiet dreams at will… and he tells me things…" Mastri pointed south, at the dark blur on the horizon that was gradually increasing in size as they approached. "That is _his_ land we travel to, he rules there." Mastri belched. "I believe I am going to be sick again," he speculated.

"Do it over the _side!_ " Duadh growled, "besmirch my clean decks again and I'll make fish stew of you!" Mastri obediently leant over the rail. Duadh fought the strong urge to bury the blade of his axe in the back of the Aielman's head, and just about succeeded.

"There is something floating there in the seawater," Mastri observed, after regurgitating at some length, "a bottle of green glass."

Taking care to avoid getting too close to the Samma N'Sei, in case he was not yet done with purging his guts, Duadh peered down into the foaming water. There was indeed an empty wine bottle bobbing near the hull… no, not quite empty, there appeared to be paper inside. A message? In a bottle? Did people actually _do_ that, outside of the story books?

"Get that bottle for me, Fish," Duadh commanded. Mastri eyed him flatly, then extended a hand. The bottle flew up out of the ship's wake and slapped into his palm. Duadh took it, pulled the cork and teased out a rolled length of parchment. He pulled it open and scanned the florid scrawl within, but was left none the wiser. "I cannot read this," Duadh muttered.

Irmilla was sitting cross-legged on the deck, drying her feet, shooting occasional spiteful glances towards Mastri. At this, however, she eyed Duadh drolly. "I always suspected that you were illiterate, Duadh!" she commented, goadingly.

Duadh gave Irmilla a cold stare. "I know my letters!" he insisted, then waved the scroll under her nose, "but I think me this is writ in the Old Tongue, I do not comprehend it."

Irmilla took the parchment from Duadh and rose gracefully, examining the writing in a cursory way. "I believe that it's actually the High Chant," she speculated, "which is much the same as the Old Tongue, only more long-winded, if anything…"

"So what does it say, 'prentice?" Duadh demanded.

Irmilla glared at him. "How should _I_ know? I don't read the Old Tongue either!"

Duadh blinked. "But you studied in the White Tower, did you not?"

"Not for very long… and I had to leave in rather a hurry after I killed that handsome youngling, or the miserable old witches would most likely have chopped my head off!" Irmilla shrugged, then smiled wickedly. "Besides, in my brief time at the Tower, I wasn't really interested in studying anything other than the Warder's practice-yard!"

" _Trollop!"_ squawked the parrot, from its perch high above, " _squaaa!_ "

While Irmilla shook her fist at the insulting bird, Duadh blinked, confused. He did not recall teaching his parrot _that_ word… he turned to Mastri, who was sniffing the neck of the empty wine bottle curiously. "Do you..?" Duadh began to ask, but the Aielman shook his head.

"I know no Old Tongue words other than those for 'fish' and 'shadow,'" Mastri explained. He thought about it, then added; "oh, and 'Samma N'Sei' as well, I suppose…"

"Yes, I think I know what _that_ means," Duadh told the Eye Blinder scathingly.

Unabashed, Mastri held up the wine bottle, enquiring; "this picture here… what manner of beast may this be?"

There was a damp label clinging to the side of the bottle, depicting a fierce, horned, reddish creature in profile… Duadh examined it and shrugged. "I know little of Shorebound fauna but I suspect that it is the 'cow' or some such other of their 'farm' animals," he speculated, humouring Mastri, not remotely interested in what the red thing was...

Irmilla glanced at the label and shook her head. "It's the Red Bull of Murandy, that pathetic patchwork Nation's silly symbol. It means that, in stead of being a fine, Domani vintage, the contents were doubtless the inferior swill that they produce in the vinlands along the River Storn… which further means that, like us, this bottle is a _long_ way from home."

They considered this, then Mastri broke the silence, waving the empty bottle. "It is not popular in the Wetlands then, this red bull's drink?" he wondered.

Irmilla frowned, impatient. "It is called 'wine' you moron, not 'Red Bull!'"

" _That_ would be an ill name for a beverage," Duadh observed.

"Never mind that!" Irmilla snapped, "we have _larger_ concerns… clearly, others from the Westlands have come here, and our Mistresses' quarry may be amongst them… this message might contain clues as to their whereabouts. We need to decipher it, somehow…"

"Perhaps the fox-masked man will know what it means?" Mastri suggested, but was roundly ignored. He gave the empty bottle a last sniff, then tossed it back into the Ocean.

Duadh thought about it, then grinned, golden teeth flashing in his dark face. "Of course!" He turned and bellowed; "Kivan!"

At once, one of the crew ran to the foredeck, a stocky youth with a mop of black, curly hair and a blue-grey stingray tattooed upon his broad chest. He put a hand over his heart, the Waketa sigil etched into the web between thumb and forefinger in dark ink. "Yes, uncle?"

Duadh shoved the parchment toward him. "Make yourself useful for once, nephew… read this out to us!"

Kivan took the scroll and dug a pair of lenses held together with a wire frame out of the pocket of his striped trews, perching them atop his narrow nose. He swept his dark eyes over the inky scrawl, blubbery lips moving silently as he read.

" _Well?_ " Duadh demanded impatiently, "you always have your pointy nose stuck in a _book_ and call yourself a scholar, so what does it _say_ , boy?"

"Not much, Sailmaster," Kivan answered apologetically, "the spelling is atrocious, the grammar worse, the content is vague at best and it… it rhymes!"

" _Rhymes?_ " repeated Irmilla, doubtfully.

"Yes, Shorebound Windfinder… mayhap it was writ by a Bard?" Kivan's oily gaze slid away from Irmilla's bare bosom and back to the page. "No… no, I missed a bit at the end, it was apparently scribed by one 'Roth Blucha' who terms himself a Gleeman." Irmilla blinked in surprise, then scowled.

"Roth _who?_ " growled Duadh.

"I _know_ this Roth Blucha!" Mastri unexpectedly announced, "or at least, I _did._ The unusual Gleeman guested at my Hold after he was found up in the Blight by one-eyed Cohradin and the other foolish _Sovin Nai_." Mastri shrugged, confiding; "of course, this was all before I began to channel and was sent north to… to kill…" he paused, puzzled. "There was _something_ that I was meant to do… but what? It is most confusing… I remember little... I _know_ that there was a time _before_ , when I did not serve the Shadow as I do now, but I cannot recall what it was _like_ , it seems as the life of another person, who filled my skin and wore my face, but was not _me_ … or mayhap _I_ am not _them_ …"

"Mastri…" Irmilla murmured softly.

The addled Samma N'Sei glanced at Irmilla Nadona, not noticing that Duadh and young Kivan were staring at him in a wary fashion. The Sailmaster of the _Stormchaser_ had raised his deadly axe slightly, while his nephew was surreptitiously touching the hilt of the long, curved dagger tucked through his sash. "Yes, Wise One's Apprentice?"

" _Shut-up!_ "

Mastri blinked, then lapsed into blessed silence.

Duadh snorted with disgust. "What is a storm-cursed _Gleeman_ doing in the Land of the Madmen anyway?" he wondered aloud.

Kivan tore his cautious gaze away from Mastri and answered promptly, eyes scanning the page once more; "Sailmaster, it tells that this Gleeman Blucha came to here by ship, and was wrecked upon a reef… as was a woman he calls his 'Lady' and an unspecified amount of sailors… he even gives a location. And…" Kivan trailed-off, blinking.

"And _what?_ " Irmilla demanded.

Kivan raised his dark eyes, disturbingly magnified by the lenses set before them. "The fool has certainly come to the _wrong_ folk with regard to his request," the studious Waketa youth commented, smiling nastily.

" _Request?_ " Duadh prompted, resisting the urge to maim his least-favourite nephew.

Kivan grinned viciously. "The Gleeman actually says that he wants to be _rescued!_ "

Duadh stared, snorted, then began to laugh harshly. From the masthead above, his vile parrot Syed squawked loudly, before echoing his laughter, mimicking his mirth.

* * *

 _ **and now...**_

 _ **the Official Gleeman Bob Feast of Lights...**_

 **QUIZ**

 **1.** What Fantasy-fiction pseudonym is suggested by the title of HSUtH?

 **2.** On their way to the White Tower to become novices, young Ellyth and Shrina almost have their luggage stolen in Tear… someone arrives just in time to help them, not giving his name, but dragging the thief off to the Stone. Who is he?

 **3.** Oddly enough, Roth's tall story about encountering a Darkhound in the woods is actually true… except for one obvious exaggeration. What is it?

 **4.** Whilst in the Ways, Jabal unwittingly alludes to a popular song of the First Age. Which one, and who performed it?

 **5.** Although she has sworn on the Oath Rod to speak no word that is not true and is certainly no Darkfriend, on one occasion Shrina tells a lie. What is the false statement about?

 **6.** How did Tro pay Kiam back for her satirical gift of a toy mouse for him to play with?

 **7.** From which lost language does the Last Lightborn twice borrow a debased term, firstly back when he was Tro, and secondly, after he became N'aethan?

 **8.** During his final visit to Forbidden Shara, Cohradin unknowingly eats hallucinogenic mushrooms and is tormented by bizarre visions of various strange creatures. What popular children's TV show is hinted at by them?

 **9.** In the Tomb of the Firstborn, also known as the Cenotaph, N'aethan partially quotes a line from Shakespeare. Which play is it taken from?

 **10.** In both books, a commonly-occurring word is often split into two words when used in dialogue, to make the language sound more archaic. Which word?

 **11.** In itLotM, when does Father use an antique fencing term?

 **12.** The character of the evil Arachnae Kirikil is based on an unpopular political figure from the past. There are clues as to her identity in the narrative. Who is she?

 **13.** Kiam Lopiang hints that Chaime Kufer may not be N'aethan's true father, or seed-donor. If this is the case, who do you think his real progenitor might be?

 ***** For an extra point, try  & guess the identity of N'aethan's mother, or egg-donor!

 ** _there you go! if you would like to test your knowledge of HSUtH & itLotM by taking part, then please send your answers to my PM inbox at your own convenience! good luck!_**

 **WitL!**

 **GB**


	11. Chapter 9 : The Battle

**Gleeman Bob writes:** _the previous chapter was titled 'The Bottle' while this chapter is titled 'The Battle.' see what the Gleeman did there? changed the O to an A! less typing for his poor tired fingers! perhaps the next chapter will be titled 'The Rattle' and will feature Gen annoying everyone with the loudness & persistence of his maracas! but no, that would be foolish... Chapter Nine is admittedly a bit on the long side, I tried to keep it as brief as possible but a simple beach skirmish ultimately assumed Waterloo-like dimensions! I wanted to do the subject matter justice, since I feel I skimped on the nautical engagement at the end of HSUtH... I was a bit lacking in inspiration for that one, I concede. _

_but it is not easy to describe a complex series of events experienced by various characters in 1,000 words or less! I have split the chapter into three Acts for easier consumption... though there is a lengthy flashback at the end of Act One that has ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH THE PLOT so feel free to skip it if you want to stay with the action. or just stay sane? I had to include the recollection, since it describes from a differing perspective one of the (in this Gleeman's humble opinion) best bits of narrative from the best Wheel of Time book, The Shadow Rising... the deposing of Siuan Sanche from the Amyrlin Seat, as flashbacked by Rashiel Sedai, notorious Trollop of the Tower! I promise that there will be no further Rashiel flashbackery, but I wanted to explain how & why she, Dagnon and Raab fled Tar Valon & signed-on for a mysterious sea-voyage to the Antipodes. in the interests of brevity I did make some cuts (I will post the compelling details of Soorla's marriage plans at the end of ItLotM...) & that is all I have to say about that..._

 _YMILLA! the keen observer will note that there has been a name-change! since they have not met until now, it did not occur to me that Ymilla & Ysmet had rather similar names... in retrospect, it was foolish of the Gleeman to create two characters who were both called something that began with a Y pronounced as an I, but there it is. anyway, Ymilla will henceforth be known as... Irmilla! & I have instructed my Editing Zomara to change the name in all previous chapters where the naughty Darkfriend Apprentice puts in an appearance, to avoid confusion. a useful Spawn of the Shadow, that Zomara... I just wish it wouldn't keep staring at me in a funny way... it is distinctly unnerving... _

_Walk in the Light!_

* * *

 _ **RIP Ursula le Guin...** while I was scribbling this interminable chapter, a great writer of speculative fiction passed away. Master _Gleewoman le Guin was the last author of a legendary generation that preceded Robert Jordan's hegemony, the members of which included Arthur C Clarke, Isaac Asimov, Frank Herbert and Anne McCaffrey... she will be sorely missed, as are they. coincidentally, I was reading Tehanu, the fourth book of Earthsea, when I heard the sad news. I am embarrassed to admit that I am STILL reading it, even though it isn't that long... well, I have been busy with my own creations, I hope that she would understand...__

 _the Light shine on you and the Creator shelter you, Ursula le Guin, the last embrace of the Mother welcome you home._

* * *

Jebedah Chul Simanon; Master Gleeman, intrepid explorer and profoundly doomed male-channeler, paused when he reached the top of the cliff, breathing heavily. Weeks spent cooped-up aboard the _Windrunner_ had left him ill-equipped to walk long distances, particularly when those distances included steep slopes. Jeb pulled the black kerchief from about his neck, revealing the bronze torc beneath which he never removed, and then used the silken scarf to wipe the perspiration from his face and brow. It was accursed humid here, wherever _here_ was…

Reluctantly Jeb turned, compelled to look, bright blue eyes in a sun-scorched face scanning the vast ocean at his back, stretching away to the north. At first, he could not see the _Windrunner_ , but shifting his gaze further out toward the horizon revealed a dark speck in the far distance, a three-masted Sea Folk Raker, hull down and all sails spread, a trail of white, frothy wake extending landwards from the stern.

Jeb frowned, trying not to feel _too_ resentful about the way things had turned out… the _Atha'an Miere_ had wasted little time in raising anchor and setting sail, heading back out to sea as fast as ever they were able, leaving this forbidding, insane land behind like some unpleasant memory. Jeb sighed, feeling one of his black moods settling heavily upon him. Leaving _him_ behind, also. Well, the Westlands had proved too hot for him; implacable Red Ajah hunters on the one hand, vengeful Darkfriend assassins on the other… some days, it had seemed that _everyone_ was out to get him! His miserable existence had truly become the epitome of paranoia… but then, he _had_ made a lot of enemies over the years. Still, his fervent wish comprised travel to somewhere else, did it not? To a faraway place where the name 'Simanon' was unknown? But not here… never to _here_.

A last regretful stare at the fleeing Raker and Jeb shifted his gaze to the beach below, the ill-omened site where they had made landfall and set up camp. Various fires were yet burning fitfully down there, wisps of oily smoke rising into the evening sky. The tents and stores were still aflame, a particularly large blaze off to the west where stacks of trade-goods, mostly bolts of silks and satins, had been set afire also. Jeb groaned softly, shaking his head slowly back and forth. He had not done _all_ of that… just most of it. At the height of the fighting, he had got a little carried away, he was forced to admit. And amongst the smouldering flames; the bodies… twisted, charred corpses for the most part, interspersed with bloody cadavers marred with the marks of violence. No few of the dead were Sea Folk; the men bare-chested, the women clad in colourful blouses, all garbed in the loose, comfortable trews that the Takana wore aboard ship and land alike…

Jeb was wearing a pair of these himself. Along with his linen, laced shirt, scuffed boots, Gleeman's patched cloak, lute and the three _ter'angreal_ gifted him by the accursed Foxes, these were the sole items that he possessed, all that he had to his name…

"Except my talent!" Jeb added, then threw back his head, laughing long and loud. The laughter had an unhinged quality to it. His stocktaking and personal mirth done with, his eyes returned to the shore and its burnt bodies… the rest of the dead down there, mostly _his_ work, were the locals, the natives. Some had arrived from the east at dawn, claiming that they wanted to trade with the _Atha'an Miere_ … then later, without warning, many more of the savages had attacked from the forest. They had been led by a pair of wild-eyed women who could both channel, but were certainly not Aes Sedai… and then, in the midst of the desperate battle, a lone, rotting Madman had come wandering along the beach to see what all the commotion was about. At this point, things had got really interesting… though not in a good way.

Jeb did not trouble to search for the remains of the deadly _Souvraniene_ since there _were_ none… the insane, decaying lunatic had rather messily exploded at the culmination of their mutual test of wills and strength in the Power. Jeb winced at the memory… that could well have been _him_ violently disintegrating into a cloud of bloody mist; his opponent had been strong, very strong. Without the additional _saidin_ from his Well- _ter'angreal_ , he would like have not prevailed in the duel. If the rest of this chaotic land's psychotic male-channelers were anything like _that_ one, Jeb knew that he was in trouble. A depressingly familiar state of affairs…

"At least I yet have my genius!" Jeb quipped, then laughed again. This time, it took real effort to force himself to stop. Jeb frowned, concerned. Of late, he had been doing that far too much; speaking to himself and then reacting with exaggerated mirth to remarks that were not even particularly amusing. It was the Dark One's Taint at work, it must be… he had never had much of a firm hold on sanity, of course, but now he was clearly starting to go mad in earnest. Would he end like that _Souvraniene_ he had faced in a desperate battle of _saidin_ -fuelled power; garbed in filthy rags, his face rotting off, burbling archaic nonsense that betrayed the fact that he had lost all touch with reality?

Jeb blinked, realising something. Yes, of course… the Madman had been speaking the Old Tongue, had he not? So had the natives, clad in rough furs and leathers, crudely tattooed, their teeth filed to points… all of them had conversed in a debased dialect of what sounded a bit like the High Chant. So presumably, they did not use the Vulgar speech here… this land must have been cut off from the rest of the world for quite some time, perhaps ever since the Breaking. Jeb's eyes narrowed. Certainly, _that_ must be it… the Breaking of the World, which had ended everywhere else some twenty-five hundred years ago, had not come to any sort of inevitable conclusion here, in this dread place. Clearly, this lost land had never recovered from the effects of extremely dangerous, enormously powerful, insane male-channelers running amok. Here, the Breaking was alive and well and going on all around him. And if he did not do something drastic, and _soon_ , then he would end by only adding to the chaos… instead of Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman, there would be just another psychopathic _Souvraniene_ wandering aimlessly, destroying everything that moved and much that didn't.

"Over my dead body!" Jeb growled, then laughed again as he saw the morbidly funny side of this statement, laughing for quite some time. When he eventually came back to his senses, Jeb noted with a feeling of abandonment that the Sea Folk Raker that had brought him here had now passed beyond the limits of the horizon. The _Windrunner_ was gone, and would not be coming back. He misdoubted that _any_ of the _Atha'an Miere_ would venture to this land of evil aspect again, given the far-from friendly reception that they had received. Which was a sorry state of affairs for _him_ , since he was in consequence marooned here. His own fault, really, for getting involved in a fight that was none of his affair, but the savages, the Witches, the Madman… he had saved the surviving Clan Takana crew from them all, but in so doing, had misfortunately revealed the fact that he could channel the One Power. And also, which was worse, that in his current weakened condition, was not above losing control of the great forces that burned within his meagre frame.

Jeb stared at one Sea Folk corpse in particular, down by the tide-line. Korena din Sudim Breaking Wave lay on her back in a pool of her own blood, the broken-off haft of a flint-tipped spear projecting from her chest, sightless eyes staring up at the darkening sky. Jeb's gaze held vague regret; he had not particularly _liked_ the Sailmistress of the _Windrunner_ , she had been far from a likeable person, after all. But he _had_ respected her abilities, the effortlessly capable way that she exerted control over her ship and crew. Had Korena survived the attack by the channelers and savages, she might well have let him come back aboard, carried him away from this terrible land, since he had used his powers to defeat her Clan's enemy… she had been harsh, but fair with it, a little like Davian. But Korena called-Breaking Wave had taken a mortal spear thrust whilst holding off a mob of the natives, buying time for more of her people to escape into the boats… and her eldest daughter, Doretta din Sudim Whirlpool, the _new_ Sailmistress, had made it quite clear that Jeb, in his capacity as a dangerously unhinged male-channeler, would _not_ be permitted back aboard the _Windrunner_.

Jeb supposed that he could have killed the odious siren, the surviving _Atha'an Miere_ crew also, if need be… but then, who would have sailed the ship? He certainly could not have handled the management of an entire Sea Folk Raker on his own… and besides, he had been too weary from his exertions in the battle to do more than give the scowling Doretta a withering look, then turn and trudge slowly away up the beach. In hindsight, he considered himself fortunate to not have received a knife in the back. So, they had gone their separate ways, the Takana and he… Jeb had considered making a funerary pyre for Korena and the other _Atha'an Miere_ dead, but it would have taken too long; he needed to put some distance between himself and the site of the fighting, in case further _Souvraniene_ were attracted by the turmoil and came to investigate. Dealing with just one Madman had been hard enough, he certainly had no wish to face another so soon after the first duel of Power.

Jeb took a last, long look at the Great Southern Ocean, prior to turning away and heading inland. To find what? He had no idea… food and a bed would be a good start, though. And after _that?_ "What in the bloody burning Pit am I supposed to do _now?_ " Jeb wondered loudly to himself, his plaintive voice piercing the silence.

" _Cease speaking to thyself, fool! Why, tis a very sign of madness!_ "

The voice was cultured and cruel, spoke the Old Tongue with a pronounced Shiotan accent. Even before Jeb whirled around to gape in amazed terror at the one who so contemptuously derided him, he clearly recognised the speaker… no-one _else_ talked like _that_.

A tall figure stood in the gloom beneath the trees, shrouded in shadows. The only details that Jeb could discern were the piercing, violet-tinged eyes which watched him intently from within the dark cowl of a voluminous cloak. No-one else had _eyes_ like that either…

"Davian!" Jeb gasped, "is it _you?!_ "

" _Of course it is I, imbecile! Who else?_ " The hidden head shook back and forth, disapprovingly. " _And speak not the Vulgar, it displeases me!_ "

" _Sorry,_ " Jeb apologised in the Old Tongue, feeling a profound sense of unreality about the situation. " _Force of habit…_ " He blinked. " _Um… Davian… my Dragon King… you are_ dead _, are you not?"_

" _Naturally I am dead,_ " confirmed the shadowy shade of the False Dragon, Davian. "Very _dead, in point of fact. Lord Nuriel stabbed me in the heart with a poisoned blade and then twisted it uncommon viciously. One cannot get much more dead than_ that _._ "

" _No, I would suppose not…_ " Jeb concurred absently, summoning an image of Lord Nuriel in his mind… a quiet, bookish fellow, for all that he had been one of the more powerful channelers amongst the Dragonsworn… " _I am much surprised to hear that it was Nuriel,_ " Jeb muttered, " _I thought it would have like been Haavane…_ "

The shade of Davian shook his head once more. " _Not so. Lord Haavane remained surprisingly loyal to my memory until the very end. Even after the Tar Valon witches severed him from the Power, he was still shouting my praises as the grim White Tower Gaidin dragged him to the headsman's block. General Comadrin was there to observe the execution, curse him…_ "

Jeb scowled. Lord-General Madoc Comadrin had been the only military leader to overcome the Dragon King in open battle, commanding the coalition that drove Davian's forces back from the fortified borders of Moreina. This failed invasion had been the beginning of the end for the People of the Dragon and their King. Though of course, the meddling Aes Sedai had a prominent role in their defeat as well.

The apparition of the dead False Dragon shrugged bony shoulders. " _But yes, I grant you that I also was taken aback when Lord Nuriel assassinated me… I did not think that the treacherous little cur had it in him._ "

" _You never can tell about people, can you?_ " Jeb commented.

" _Indeed not._ "

" _I have gone insane, haven't I?_ " Jeb observed, fatalistically, " _you are not really there, are you Davian? I am imagining this conversation._ "

A hollow, chuckling sound emerged from the dark hood. " _Trust me, good Jeb, your imagination was_ never _that fertile!_ "

" _Am I dead too?_ " Jeb moaned, sinking to his knees in despair.

The shadowy figure made a gusty, sighing sound. " _Be not so_ dramatic! _You are quite alive, in truth._ "

" _But_ you _aren't! How is it that you can converse with me, Davian? That you can appear in my presence, somewhat insubstantial though you be…_ "

" _There is dead… and there is dead._ "

" _Oh…_ "

" _You do not comprehend, do you?_ "

" _Not really, my King…_ "

Davian's shade adopted a lecturing tone; " _I have come to appreciate that death takes many forms. This particular apparition that manifests before you is merely a representation of me, a faded memory of the man I once was._ "

" _I can see the tree through you!_ " Jeb declared.

" _Perceptive as ever, good Jeb._ "

" _Sarcastic as ever, good Davian!_ "

The shade of the deceased Dragon King laughed again, a deathly sound, naturally. " _I have missed your sly wit, my friend, and much else of the living world I once knew."_ Again, he sighed. " _Ah, me…_ "

" _What is it_ like _, being dead?_ " Jeb asked, "your _kind of dead, at least?_ "

" _I may not tell you, Jebedah… there are strictures to the contact betwixt alive and deceased, rules to be observed, bounds from which one may not stray… though in_ this _place, those barriers are thin, insubstantial, and may be crossed after a fashion…_ " Davian's shade straightened, looming within the shadows, the cold voice carrying a note of urgency; " _but time is short… I have advice for you, good Jeb, will you heed it?_ "

" _Of course, my King… you ne'er failed to give good counsel in life, why should you now in-_ "

" _Yes, yes,_ " snapped the shade of Davian impatiently, " _now_ listen; _you were gifted thrice by the Eelfinn, were you not?_ "

" _You know that I was, Davian. Did I not tell you of my venture within the Tower of Ghenjei?_ "

" _That you did, although I assumed the tale to be mostly exaggerated nonsense. Well, good Jeb,_ I _have three gifts for you also… they are not mine to give, exactly, but their owner shall raise no objection._ " Once more, the hollow laugh. " _You yet have a part to play, for good or ill, and Fate is not done with you. These boons will preserve you in the times to come._ "

Jeb listened carefully to the directives he was then given; where he should go, what he should do when he got there… and how to avoid the peril that had beset all others who had made that same journey.

" _Thank you, my King Dragon,_ " Jeb said in farewell as the shade of his former Overlord began to dissipate into the gloom. Impulsively, he called out; " _was it_ worth _it, Davian? Raising your Banner, gathering the People of the Dragon to your cause… would you do it again, had you the chance?_ "

" _Of_ course _I would!_ " whispered the fading voice of Davian, " _though no, it certainly was_ not _worth it. But remember, Jebedah Chul Simanon; you and I, we are Men of Fire… we walk the path of flame while the World burns around us. Ever has it been thus, and ever will it be, so long as the Wheel turns._ " Then, he was gone. Gone to wherever it was that the False Dragons of Legend went, when their time was done.

Jeb considered these final, fleeting words of Davian. "Perhaps the _Wheel_ is to blame for my predicament?" he mused, adding speculatively; "mayhap it behoves me to _stop_ the accursed Wheel of Time from turning, to put a final end to the implacable tyranny of Fate?" On this occasion, the insane laughter lasted for a very long time…

A week later, and Jeb was in a bad way. In the course of his seven day journey – he still thought of it as that, though the Sea Folk had told him that a week now amounted to _ten_ days – he had encountered savages, cannibals, wild beasts, Witches… and another Madman. All had sought to kill him, at least two on the list presumably wishing to _eat_ him into the bargain… and Jeb had responded by destroying them all. He was not a particularly violent man, but the important requirements of self-preservation always served to bring out his dark side, the deadlier aspects of his ruthless nature.

The channeling was beginning to take its toll, however… each time Jeb now seized _saidin_ proved a greater and more intense struggle to retain control, to not be swept away into the maelstrom of the One Power. His torc- _ter'angreal_ was proving less effective with each passing day, and the bouts of eccentric and unhinged behaviour were growing steadily more pronounced. Jeb clearly did not have long left… soon, he would be little different from the noseless villain who had sought to burn him with weaves of Fire at a ford in the river that he had needed to cross. The unkempt _Souvraniene_ had been chewing on something that looked like a dried fig, but on later examination proved to be a human ear.

The Madman had stationed himself there on the bank of the deep and fast-flowing stream, naming himself the 'River God' and refusing to let Jeb pass without a fight. Well, they had fought long, leaving scores of felled trees about the battlefield and the river's course inexorably changed… and Jeb had ultimately prevailed, though at the cost of yet more of what remained of his sanity.

These deadly encounters were not the worst of it, however… Jeb had seen things that sickened him deeply, and he had a strong stomach for carnage and cruelty. Bordering a forest; a long row of severed heads impaled on wooden stakes, all men, though some had been little more than boys. Each twisted face was crudely tattooed, each gaping mouth contained teeth filed to points. A couple of day's later, Jeb came upon a great pile of splintered human bones, the grinning skulls set atop it, left to bleach in the hot sun. And he had spent the previous night in a deserted village, sleeping fitfully on the dirt floor of a rude, mud hut. In the morning, he had discovered _why_ the settlement was empty of its inhabitants… going down to the brook to wash, he had found the missing villagers; men, women and children, their dismembered corpses thrown into a shallow pit and left to rot.

Why such acts had been committed made little sense to Jeb, in a way it was _worse_ than the massacres perpetrated by the Shadow, which however vile, at least had some evil purpose to them. Trollocs needed to be fed, Myrddraal needed to indulge their taste for cruelty, Darkfriends needed to set vicious examples to those who remained loyal to the Light, refusing to swear fealty to the Dark One. But here, these abominations that had been enacted by unknown perpetrators, these abhorrent crimes and others even fouler that he did not care to think on… there seemed to be absolutely no motive for them. This unknown land was a terrible place, where nightmarish events occurred for no other reason than that they _could_. It seemed to be the only explanation, eminently dissatisfactory though it was.

Jeb had found a small sack of withered apples in the empty village, some roasted corn also. This was enough for him to subsist on for the time being. There had been several strips of dried meat hanging on a wooden rack also, but since he could not be entirely sure what – or _who_ – the cured flesh had come from, had left it for the scavenging of the strange-looking wild dogs that loitered in the vicinity.

The going was slow, but not without a destination in mind, Davian had been quite clear about that. Jeb frowned. If it had even been Davian's shade that addressed him, and not some hallucination, a figment of his addled mind. But it had certainly _sounded_ like Davian, had said the sort of things that his Dragon King used to say… well, time would tell. He must be getting close now.

At the summit of a long slope, Jeb stood gazing down at the expanse of dark forest below. Or more particularly, at the smooth, round, artificial hill that arose amidst the centre of the looming trees, surrounded by a clear space, paved in dark stone. That which Davian's unquiet shade had told him to seek… and now, found. Jeb scratched fitfully at his fair stubble – with the departure of the _Windrunner_ his access to a razor had departed also – then took several deep breaths, waiting for his respiration to settle after the tiring slog up to his current vantage.

"Now for the hard part," Jeb muttered eventually, and began to make his footsore way down toward the waiting forest below, patched cloak flapping about him, a cautious hand on the hilt of his dark, jagged blade, lute slung upon his back.

Beneath the trees it was still and silent… far too quiet, in fact, the other stretches of forest through which Jeb had journeyed had been alive with bird calls, the song of exotic species that he did not recognise. Not so here… before he had ventured far along the ancient, obsidian-flagged path that wound through the woods, shattered statues set at intervals, Jeb became convinced that he was being watched; and not by friendly eyes, either. The dark forest held a malevolent presence, antipathetical to any intruder, he was sure of it. But then, he _had_ been warned… it was what he was expecting. Dreading, also. But there was nowhere else for him to go, no other plans to preserve both life and sanity had presented themselves.

A flash of rapid movement in the corner of Jeb's eye and he turned, staring suspiciously into the gloom that lurked beneath the tall trees. Nothing there. He moved on. Moments later, a blur as something pallid sped through the forest, this time to the other side of the path. Jeb drew his blade, crouching, but no attack came. The sensation of hostile eyes upon him remained, increased if anything. Jeb shrugged, and continued on his way, though he did not sheath the knife. As an added precaution, he partially drained his Well- _ter'angreal_ , filling himself with comforting, sickening _saidin_. Ignoring the occasional half-seen glimpses of white shapes flickering amongst the trees, knowing that they would not be there when he looked directly at them, Jeb strode rapidly along the winding path toward his destination, doing his best to prevent fear from controlling him. It was difficult though, to not let instinct take over and flee in panic from this dread place… he was, after all, being _stalked_.

Jeb heard it before he saw it… a wet chewing sound, the noise of something masticating something else, breaking the uncanny silence of the dark forest. He rounded a corner and beheld the statue of a fox, a serpent coiled about it, rendered in pitted elstone. This was not what claimed his attention, however. A man-sized creature was hunched before the carving, its curved back toward him, paper white skin stretched over a knobbly spine. It was gaunt, naked, and clearly not human… though not exactly animal, either. Something in-between, like a Trolloc, only _worse_. Much worse. Pointed ears arose to either side of its hairless skull… no, not entirely bald, a thin stripe of russet hair extended back from its brow, falling part-way down its elongated back. Its limbs were long, it would be tall standing, though at the moment was crouching in a feral posture, hands raised to its mouth. Feeding.

Jeb really did not want the creature to turn around and reveal more of itself, he had seen quite enough of it already. Perhaps there was an alternate route to the dome at the forest's centre? One that avoided encountering this fell creature, or its ilk? Jeb took a cautious step back… and trod upon a dry twig, which snapped loudly. The creature's ears twitched and its head jerked up, turning upon a long, white neck, to fix Jeb with large, pale eyes.

"Light!" Jeb gasped, a word he did not oft use.

The creature had a narrow face tapering down past a vestigial nose with just slits for nostrils, descending to a distended mouth and jaw, a muzzle filled with sharp teeth, the pallid skin of its lips and chin bloody. Jeb could not help but notice that it clutched in its pale hands a lump of dark meat that looked like a partially-consumed liver. _Whose liver?_ he wondered distantly. It was a moot point; the creature dropped its fleshy supper carelessly to the ground and advanced on Jeb, stalking forward, moving on all fours, long fingers tipped with sharp claws splayed on the flagstones. Its disturbing gaze held his, and it made a soft, snarling noise.

"What in the Pit _are_ you?" Jeb whispered, horrified.

By way of a response, the creature threw back its head and made a loud, yipping noise. Answering yips and other bestial calls erupted from deep within the trees to either side, and from behind as well. Clearly, retreat or diversion were not viable options… Jeb would have to go _forward_ , to escape this dread situation. The trouble was, the horrific creature crouched between him and his goal. Well, that was likely not a problem, Jeb had always had a short way with obstacles to his progress… he raised a hand, narrowing his eyes at the creature, which paused its stalking approach, waiting.

" _Time to die_ ," Jeb told the monster in the Old Tongue, and cast a fireball. Or at least, he _tried_ to. Something disrupted the weaves, and they fell apart even as they formed. The creature's pale eyes widened slightly, pupils expanding, as though it could actually _see_ the flows of _saidin_ … it inhaled slowly, diagonal nostril slits flaring, then did something truly disturbing. It _smiled_. Though its distended mouth was not made for such expressions, it yet managed to smile slyly at him. It was this mocking gesture, combined with the white skin, colourless eyes and russet hair that confirmed a nagging suspicion which had preyed upon Jeb ever since seeing the creature – and how he wished that he had not! " _Eelfinn?_ " he gasped, wonderingly.

At which the creature flinched slightly, a shadow of fear in its pale eyes, then shook its head in negation, the thin mane of hair twitching against its bony shoulders. " _Nnott Eelffinn,_ " it growled harshly, in what was barely recognisable as an ancient form of the High Chant. It hesitated, as though searching for words with its bestial mind, then jabbed a thumb-claw at its chest, indicating itself. " _Ffoxx… Ddaemmonn!_ "

Jeb's mouth dropped open, his arm falling limply to his side. He yet held _saidin_ , but clearly, it would do him little good against this monstrosity. The creature – the _Fox Daemon!_ – resumed its slyly savage smile, creeping closer to Jeb in predatory fashion. More of the yipping sounds arose from the forest all around, sounding closer.

" _Ttimme tto ddie, Mmaddmmann!_ " the creature snarled, preparing to pounce.

But Jeb, despite his shock at being addressed by this monstrous aberration, in his own words no less, had not lived to be ninety-three by letting the unexpected get the better of him. He had ever been quick-witted, and possessed the advantage of experience. He had been to Sindhol, and had lived to tell of it, albeit barely. Jeb channeled, exhausting the remaining _saidin_ in his Well, though not casting the weaves directly _at_ the creature this time, but into the air high above his head. A bright sphere of light bloomed, fierce white flames dancing within – and the creature shrieked in horrified anguish, covering its eyes with malformed hands and cowering away from the terrible, burning orb. Jeb promptly stepped up and kicked it hard in its hollow chest, and as the monstrosity rolled back, slipped forward to neatly slash it across its white-skinned throat with his jagged blade. Dark blood gouted from the deep wound, a substance like steam rising from the splattering gore, but Jeb did not linger to admire his handiwork. By this, he was running hard down the path.

Angry, yipping cries rose from the forest to either side as Jeb ran, getting nearer as the hunters pursued their prey. Jeb was unsure how many of these vile fox-creatures there were in the trees, but it sounded like a _lot_. A man's body lay across the path ahead of him, Jeb leapt over it without having time to give the corpse more than a cursory examination. A slight young fellow with a thin moustache, dark eyes staring emptily up at the boughs above, his throat ripped open. A sword lay near to a gauntlet-clad hand and the dead man wore the remnants of blue lacquered armour over a black uniform, breastplate pulled awry, insides torn out… the unfortunate owner of the liver upon which the monster had been dining, Jeb presumed.

The yips and snarls at his back grew louder, closer, Jeb did not dare to look behind him but redoubled his pace, gasping breathlessly. Up ahead lay a crumbling arch across the path and beyond, a wide space surrounding the great dome that he strived to reach, ahead of his pursuers. 'Hob's Hill' Davian had named it. Jeb was familiar with the legend of _Caisen Hob_ , a popular story from Shandalle that he had occasionally told around the villages in his youth… and then, there was the far older tale, that of _Bili beneath the Hill_. Well, if the monsters chasing Jeb did not catch him first, he would emulate the foolish Bili! Though some older versions of the fable named him 'Gwili…'

Shards of bone crunched under Jeb's worn boots as he raced across the paved space, heading for a semicircular aperture in the dome's curving wall, a dark opening that seemingly afforded entrance. With luck, there would be some kind of _door_ that he could close on his pursuers… but his fortune had been poor of late, admittedly. More bones were kicked up by his hasty passage; ribs, femurs, skulls… some were the remnants of animal skeletons, but most were not. It appeared that the paved area around the Hill was a killing ground, and had been for some time… the daemonic creatures evidently resented intruders trespassing upon their territory.

Jeb risked a glance around himself as he ran… mortal remains lay everywhere; some old, others less so, all showing clear sign of predation. Then, he tripped on something large and fell full-length onto his stomach, winded… but absurdly glad that he had not landed on his back. That was an accursed fine lute strapped there, if he shattered the instrument to kindling then he doubted that he would find another in this savage land. Wheezing for breath, Jeb glanced over his shoulder, noting that the obstacle on which he had stumbled was another fresh corpse in the blue lacquered armour, a young woman this time, her brown hair cropped short. She had been disembowelled, lay in a pool of dark blood. And just beyond her, one of the ferocious, white-skinned creatures, loping towards him on all fours, muzzle gaping wide, sharp teeth ready to rend flesh. At the tree-line; more of its horrific fellows were emerging from the forest, his attacker must have pursued faster than the others.

The Fox Daemon crouched, stringy muscles tensing, prior to pouncing upon its victim. Jeb made to raise his blade, but it was no longer in his hand and lay a couple of paces away, where it had fallen when he tripped. Desperately, he tried to seize _saidin_ , for all that it would do him little good, since something about these monstrous creatures clearly disrupted his flows… but then, a black-feathered arrow sprouted in the monster's chest. It reared up, howling, looming over the cringing Jeb… then another shaft struck beside the first, as a third and final dark-fletched arrow took it in the neck. The creature fell back, writhing and thrashing on the bone-bestrewn flags as steaming dark blood gouted from the wounds. Jeb picked himself up, hastily retrieving his knife whilst dazedly wondering from whence the providential arrows had been shot?

" _Come on!_ " roared a rough but unmistakeably female voice from within the dark portal that led into Hob's Hill, " _run_ , _you fool!_ " The brusque words were formed in the Old Tongue.

Jeb ran. On the way to presumed safety, he passed a third corpse wearing the distinctive blue armour, a grizzled man with a broken neck. From behind, he could hear the bestial cries of the pursuing Fox Daemons, but abruptly the yipping and howling ceased, leaving only the sound of his frantic, pounding feet. Three figures emerged from the semicircular aperture in the Hill, wearing blue-lacquered helms, breastplates and greaves buckled over their black uniforms, holding short, recurved bows with black-fletched arrows nocked. They were not exactly pointing them at Jeb, but it would be the work of a moment to raise the weapons and feather him with shafts as thoroughly as they had the attacking creature.

" _That is far enough!_ " warned the soldier in the middle, a compact, tough-looking woman with a short, red plume on her helmet and a dark gaze that drilled into Jeb, eyes so cold and merciless that the average Red Ajah witch would have been proud to possess them. The curving face-guards on her helm hid the rest of her features.

Jeb skidded to a halt, he knew when someone meant business. " _But I am being_ chased!" he protested, using the same archaic language.

" _No, you are not. Look_." The armoured soldier with the plume of rank – an Officer, presumably – pointed briefly behind Jeb before returning her fingers to the bow-string. He glanced over his shoulder. About a score of the white-skinned, savage creatures loitered some fifty paces away, seeming reluctant to approach any closer, crouching on all fours, loping back and forth, more of them prowling from the trees to join their fellows. Their _pack_. They all seemed roughly the same, some larger than others, though Jeb noted that several were clearly female; with slighter builds, more delicate pointed ears and wider manes of russet hair.

" _Why aren't they attacking?_ " Jeb wondered hoarsely, struggling for breath.

"They're afraid to come too close to the Hill," answered a deep voice, the soldier to the left of the Officer, a big man with stern eyes.

"There's something inside this place that scares 'em, and it's not _us_ …" added the soldier to the right, a slim youth. He lowered his bow and removed his helmet, revealing morose features beneath close-cropped pale hair.

Jeb noted that both soldiers spoke the Vulgar. The Officer barked at them in the same language; "shut your bloody mouths, crow-bait!" She turned back to Jeb, slipping into the Old Tongue again; " _you with the absurd cloak, get in here and account for yourself!_ "

Jeb obeyed meekly enough, tucking his dark, jagged blade back into its sheath and taking several cautious glances over his shoulder as he hurried toward the portal, still breathing heavily from his recent exertions. There were about two score of the creatures assembled now, crouching in a loose semicircle at the edge of the clearing, large, pale eyes fixed on their quarry. " _Are you_ sure _we are safe?_ " he asked the Officer as he passed beneath the curved aperture.

The Officer snorted with disgust. " _Safe? Ask Dydra and Elmos if we are safe!_ " She nodded at the two dead soldiers lying some distance away, the gutted woman and the older man with the broken neck.

"Did you see anyone else out there?" asked the youthful soldier hopefully, still speaking the Vulgar, "a young fellow, a little older than me?"

"Did he have a thin moustache?" Jeb enquired in the same tongue, talking absently, wary gaze fixed on the Fox Daemons that surrounded them.

"Yes, that's him!"

"Dead, I'm afraid… one of those monsters was eating his liver… I killed it."

"Poor Tomlin!" moaned the youth, "he went to fetch help, but-"

"Shut-it, Paetar!" snapped the Officer.

"What _are_ those things?" Jeb queried.

After a brief pause, the big soldier answered shortly, his dark eyes warily fixed on the monstrous enemy without. "Them? Why, they are the children of _Caisen Hob_."

The Officer scowled. " _And_ you, Jahan! Silence in the bloody ranks!"

" _What_ ranks?" the youth Paetar muttered resentfully, "we're all that's left…"

The Officer glared at the insubordinate young soldier, but did not repeat her command. Tensions were obviously running high…

Jeb glanced past the soldiers at the interior of Hob's Hill. A huge, cavernous space wreathed in shadows, but for just inside the portal, where a small camp-fire flickered fitfully, fuelled by what looked like broken pieces of ancient furniture. Three knapsacks were piled beside it, as well as a trio of long spears propped up in a triangle. In addition to their bows, each soldier had a long sword sheathed at their back, daggers tucked into belts. Their lacquered armour appeared rather old and dented, with mismatched straps holding it in place.

" _Caisen Hob?_ " Jeb queried, recalling the big soldier Jahan's words, "the Dark One… his _children?_ You mean, those things are some kind of Shadowspawn?"

The two soldiers eyed each other, then looked at Jeb dismissively.

"Shadowspawn are all dead," Jahan pointed-out, gruffly.

"The High King's armies killed 'em all at the Battle of Talidar, everyone knows _that_ ," Paetar added, eyeing Jeb askance.

Jeb had never heard of this 'Talidar' but thought it best to not enquire further, especially since the Officer was watching him closely, with great suspicion. "I think that you will find those foul creatures are named 'Fox Daemons,'" he murmured, "or at least, that's what the one I killed called itself…"

The soldiers reacted with surprise, speaking on top of each other;

"You _spoke_ to it?"

"They can _talk?_ "

"Oh yes," Jeb concurred, "after a fashion, but-"

"Never mind that!" growled the Officer, "by the Hawkwing's sword, who _are_ you, fellow?"

Ignoring the mention of the Hawkwing – _him_ again! – Jeb answered carefully. He felt that he was far enough away from his notorious past, both geographically and temporally, to give his true title. "Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman."

" _Gleeman?_ " whispered young Paetar, wonderingly.

"And may I know _your_ name, my Lady?" Jeb enquired of the Officer.

The Officer removed her helm and passed it to Jahan. Her hair was jet black and shorn close to her scalp, she had a deep, white scar marring her left cheek and thin lips compressed in disapproval. "I am _not_ your Lady! I am High Captain Larynda, Larynda Paendrag Aethelle of the Blood."

Jeb smiled sardonically. "Indeed? Should I bow or kneel?" He did not recall seeing any actual movement, but the high-born Officer's bow promptly disappeared, replaced by a gold-pommelled knife, its razor-edge touching his throat.

High Captain Larynda's dark, cold eyes were fixed firmly on his, and held ruthless intent. " _Already I regret giving the order to save your worthless life, oddly-dressed outlander,_ " she hissed in the Old Tongue, " _there is something about you that troubles my mind… give me one good reason why I should not just cut your throat and be done with you?"_ The keen blade pressed a little harder for emphasis, raising a bead of blood on Jeb's skin.

" _I can give you_ two _excellent reasons not to kill me!_ " Jeb croaked in the same language, speaking carefully so as not to slice open any important veins, " _the cloak that I wear and the lute upon my back!_ "

Captain Larynda raised a sceptical eyebrow, but at least lowered the knife slightly. Jeb glanced down at the weapon in surprise… it appeared to be the distinctive Officer's dagger of the famed Golden Lions of Aldeshar, with the pommel shaped into a stylised feline head, though somewhat age-worn by the looks of it… how had this dangerous Noblewoman come by the rare blade? Did these blue-armoured soldiers _also_ hail from the Westlands? They spoke the Vulgar after all, no-one else he had encountered here did _that_ …

"Explain yourself, fool!" Captain Larynda demanded, slipping back into the language in question. Jeb opened his mouth to do so, but the youthful soldier forestalled him.

"He is a _Gleeman_ , High Captain!" Paetar exclaimed, "my grandfather told me of them… they tell tall tales and sing silly songs and wear many colours on their capes…" he grabbed the edge of Jeb's patched cloak and tugged on it for emphasis, "…to identify themselves… why, tis ill luck to harm Gleemen!"

Captain Larynda glowered at Paetar, while Jeb breathed a sigh of relief. A rather simplistic explanation of his craft, but it was nice to know that at least one of these strange soldiers respected the sanctity of his rank… something that even the savage _Aielmen_ did!

"But I don't believe that last part," Paetar added, lowering his bow and touching the hilt at his back, "want me to kill him, sir?"

Jeb glared at the bloodthirsty and disrespectful youth whilst Captain Larynda considered his fate. The big soldier, Jahan, eyed Jeb hopefully. "Got any food, outlander?" he asked, in his deep voice.

Jeb checked the pockets of his patched cloak. The corn had fallen out at some point whilst he fled the demons, but there was yet the small sack, bulging with about a quarter of its original contents… Jeb held it up. "Just some apples, I am afraid…"

" _Apples!_ " rumbled Jahan eagerly, snatching the sack from Jeb and digging a hand in. He stuffed a withered fruit into his mouth, before passing the sack to Paetar, who enthusiastically began to eat also.

Captain Larynda took the sack and examined the contents suspiciously. "Those could be poisoned," she pointed-out. Jahan and Paetar ceased chewing and eyed each other uncertainly. " _You_ eat one, Gleer-man!" Larynda spat, tossing an apple to Jeb.

" _Gleeman_ , actually," Jeb corrected her, before taking a bite and swallowing. " _Master_ Gleeman, in fact," he qualified, then enquired; "might I ask where you people are _from?_ "

Captain Larynda hesitated, then reluctantly answered; "the Isle of the Spire."

"Oh… I know it not... and before _that?_ "

Larynda declined to respond further, but Paetar spoke, his mouth full; "our forebears came from the Empire."

"Whose Empire would that be?"

"The Hawkwing's, of course! There is only _one_ Empire, Master Gleeman!"

Jeb raised his eyebrows… this Artur Hawkwing, yet again! The High King of yore certainly seemed to have a powerful influence over historical events… one of the _Atha'an Miere_ had claimed that he was _Ta'veren_. Jeb would not be surprised… Davian had always hinted that he, too, was _Ta'veren_ , but most probably, had not been. Such personages were exceedingly rare, after all. Very little knowledge about Jeb's former patron, the Dragon King, had survived to present times… he seemed to have largely been forgotten, beyond 'Davian' yet being an extremely unpopular name to give to one's male children. A subsequent False Dragon named 'Guaire Amalasan' had almost entirely eclipsed him in notoriety, it seemed…

"So what brings you here, to this perilous place?" Jeb wondered.

Captain Larynda stood silent, scowling at him, but the two soldiers answered readily enough, whilst grabbing fresh apples from the depleted sack.

"The High Princess, may she never die, sent us on this mission," Paetar explained.

"On the advice of the Deathless One," Jahan added.

"The Deathless One?" Jeb prompted.

"Yes, it has always been with us, ever since our ancestors came here some five centuries ago. The Deathless One watches over our Ruler, kills anyone who tries to harm her…" Paetar shrugged. "Looks like a woman, but it _isn't_."

"It drinks blood," Jahan revealed, grimly.

"These apples are good," Paetar commented, "we've been trapped in here since yesterday with nothing to eat…"

"Got anything else?" Jahan wondered.

"Sorry," Jeb demurred, shading his eyes and glancing out at the waiting monstrosities that lingered at the tree-line, preventing their escape. "So… these children of _Caisen Hob_ or Fox Daemons or whatever they are… where do they-?"

"Enough!" Captain Larynda shouted angrily, "we will _ask_ the questions, not answer them! What do you here, outlander? How did you come to our lands? You speak the Vulgar and are clearly _not_ one of the debased inhabitants!"

"Thank you!" Jeb responded, erroneously taking this statement for a compliment… though the way Larynda's dark eyes narrowed dangerously made him recall the sharpness of her lion-pommelled dagger, so he answered hastily. "I actually came here aboard an _Atha'an Miere_ craft, a Raker named the _Windrunner_ …"

"The Sea Folk have returned?" Captain Larynda cried, eyes widening, before composing herself and resuming her threatening gaze. The two soldiers paused in their apple-gorging, staring hopefully at Jeb.

"It has been long since the Tolaman deserted our cause," Jahan muttered.

"They sailed south in the last ship left and were ne'er seen again," Paetar added, mournfully.

Jeb's brow furrowed. "The Tolaman, you say? Why no, these were mariners of Clan Takana with whom I voyaged, but they did not stay overlong." Jeb shrugged apologetically. "They sailed down here to trade, but the locals attacked without provocation and attempted to murder and devour us all!" Jahan and Paetar looked crestfallen, but not so much that they abandoned their fervent apple-eating.

Captain Larynda snarled angrily. "Filthy savages! We strive to bring them the peace and security of the Hawkwing's Law, but they will not change their ways! This land is truly cursed!" She eyed Jeb with suspicion, which he was beginning to realise was her habitual attitude, both to him and to everything else. "Why, then, did the _Atha'an Miere_ leave you behind, Gleam-man?"

" _Gleeman_. Well, I _wanted_ to stay, in point of fact." All three of them stared at Jeb as though he were mad… they were not far wrong, he considered. "I have long had an interest in certain ancient artefacts… I had heard that such were to be found in this edifice."

" _That_ is why we were sent to this evil place," Paetar observed, darkly.

"There is nothing here though, we have searched thoroughly," Jahan went on, "just old broken junk from the Age of Legends…"

" _And_ those vile monsters out there," Paetar added, "they've slaughtered half the patrol and I expect we're _next_."

"The Deathless One never said anything about _them_ ," Jahan grumbled.

" _That_ is something I mean to have words with it about, when we return to the Isle," Captain Larynda growled.

" _If_ we return," Paetar muttered, pessimistically.

Jeb thought about it, then smiled. "I believe I can help you in that regard," he offered, unslinging his lute from his back and checking the strings for signs of wear, before beginning to deftly tune the instrument. They watched him, nonplussed.

"What are you going to do, play a nice _song_ for the monsters?" Captain Larynda enquired sarcastically.

Jeb nodded firmly. "Yes. That is _exactly_ what I mean to do." His smile widened, but with effort, he managed to keep himself from laughing. If he started, he did not think that he would be able to stop.

A time later, the Master Gleeman and the trio of soldiers stood at the edge of the wide, paved space that bordered Hob's Hill, the tall trees of the forest looming over them. All around; white-skinned, russet-maned Fox Daemons lay curled upon the obsidian slabs amongst discarded, gnawed bones, pale eyes tightly closed, narrow, slat-ribbed chests rising and falling slowly. Fast asleep, every one of them.

Paetar took a cautious step toward the nearest comatose creature and gave it a prod with the butt of his long spear. It stirred slightly, making the youth flinch nervously, then resumed its slumbers. Paetar considered a moment, then his eyes narrowed vengefully and he reversed the spear, drawing it back for a thrust, preparing to stab the sleeper.

"I would not do that, were I you…" Jeb advised. Paetar hesitated, his dark eyes moving uncertainly to the Master Gleeman. "If you slay one of them, the commotion may awaken the others… they would certainly attack us."

"He is right," Captain Larynda agreed grudgingly, "much as I should like to put an end to these foul creatures, we had best leave while we are able." Her cold eyes flicked toward Jeb and she added, even more grudgingly; "I would suppose we have _you_ to thank for that, Gleeman."

"You finally got it right!" Jeb congratulated her, "though actually, I am a _Master_ Glee-"

"Move out!" Captain Larynda ordered, ignoring Jeb.

Jahan and Paetar shouldered their spears and filed toward the crumbling archway where the forest path began. "Bye, Master Gleeman," Paetar called as he moved into the forest, "and thanks for the apples!"

Jahan eyed Jeb curiously as he too strode past. "What was that sad song you sang to _Caisen Hob's_ children?" he wondered.

" _The Ballad of Jeren_ , an ancient ode," Jeb answered, recalling with satisfaction the way the Fox Daemons had reacted to his singing and playing, their eyelids growing heavy, distended mouths gaping wide to yawn, the strength draining from their long, sinewy limbs as they curled up on the flagstones and went to sleep. The _Eelfinn_ had behaved in much the same fashion, long ago, when he breached Ghenjei's Tower with a bronze blade and went to seek his destiny in Sindhol. Clearly, the Foxes were in some way related to these hybrid, daemonic creatures… but how had that happened? What dark deeds of experimentation had taken place here at Hob's Hill to make that abomination of breeding transpire?

Captain Larynda stared at Jeb with her customary suspicion as she too shouldered her spear, preparatory to following her men into the trees. " _How did you know that music would do this to them?_ " she demanded in the Old Tongue, gesturing with a gauntleted hand at the slumbering Fox Daemons that lay all around them.

" _A lucky guess,_ " Jeb lied, switching to the same language. Larynda had tersely explained that the Blood, the Nobility who could claim descent from the Hawkwing, solely spoke the Old Tongue amongst themselves, scorning the Vulgar which was mostly used by the commonality, including the lowly soldiery. Of necessity, she employed both languages, switching from one to the other depending upon whom she conversed with. Jeb grinned insolently. " _Do you not recall the rhyme from Snakes and Foxes? 'Courage to strengthen, Fire to blind, Music to-'_ "

" _Dazzle,_ " Larynda completed. She scowled. " _So you are saying that these vile monstrosities-_ " she kicked the nearest one, fortunately it remained asleep, "- _are the_ Foxes _from a simplistic children's game?_ "

" _It is a story, too,_ " Jeb pointed-out, wincing over the kick. If the fool Noblewoman woke the accursed things up, he did not think that any amount of singing and strumming would put them to sleep again… the tactic had only worked _once_ on the Eelfinn, after all.

" _So you stay?_ " Captain Larynda continued, " _you realise that you will almost certainly die if you do?_ "

Jeb shrugged. " _I think not. Though I thank you for your offer of safe passage back to the Isle of the Spike-_ "

" _Spire!_ "

" _Spire, then. But I came here for a purpose, and may not leave until I have searched this ruin for that which I seek._ "

" _There is nothing in there, I tell you! The Deathless One was_ wrong _, we have sought thoroughly and found nothing!_ "

" _I call no doubt upon your words, High Captain, but must see for myself or ne'er be satisfied._ "

Captain Larynda regarded Jeb levelly for a long moment, as though rethinking her decision to let him live, then contented herself with a disparaging snort as she turned away toward the crumbling arch, the forest path. " _Well, in the unlikely event that you survive,_ Master _Gleeman, come to our island fortress,_ " she suggested, " _you have done us a service and shall have sanctuary there, should you require it…_ " she paused, glancing over her shoulder, a crooked smile twisting her lips, " _…you can play and sing for the Blood, mayhap… for my cousin, the High Princess, may she never die…_ " her smile became contemptuous, " _…the Court is ever in need of_ diversion."

Jeb wanted her to go, but could not help but wonder… " _this Isle of yours, High Captain… what is this_ Spire _that you speak of?_ "

" _A great device of the Age of Legends, it preserves my people from the depredations of the Souvraniene, the Witches also…_ "

" _Indeed? How so?_ "

Captain Larynda eyed Jeb flatly. " _I suspected that you were deceiving me at first, outlander, you have the aspect of a born-liar… but you truly are_ not _from around here, are you? The Spire prevents_ channeling _._ " Without another word, High Captain Larynda Paendrag Aethelle, Blood of the Hawkwing, turned and paced away, disappearing into the gloomy forest on the trail of her men.

"Interesting," Jeb commented, feeling the incipient madness rage and roil within him, stronger than ever, the siren-call of _saidin_ keening at the edge of his awareness. "Perhaps one day I shall pay a visit to this Isle of the Spire after all…" But first things first… he had to-

Nearby, one of the Fox Daemons stirred, stretching, eyes flickering behind its white lids. To either side, others of its dread kind were showing signs of movement also. Clearly, they were waking up.

"That's not good," Jeb muttered, and set off hastily, back to the dark entrance that breached the dome, his feet moving faster with each step until he was running. Behind, he could hear the yips and snarls of the awakening daemons, but did not dare look over his shoulder. Passing two low, hastily-made cairns beneath which the mortal remains of the pair of unfortunate soldiers languished, Jeb ducked into the cool, comforting darkness of Hob's Hill.

The campfire was still burning fitfully; Jeb hesitated, then pulled a blazing brand from it, holding it up to give himself some illumination. He did not want to risk seizing the _saidin_ he would need to summon a more eldritch light… though he had a feeling that he might well have to. There _was_ something here, the shade of Davian had assured him of it, and he trusted the word of his former Ruler, whatever disquieting guise the Dragon King manifested himself in. Jeb was sure that the soldiers had searched the place to the best of their abilities, but his own talents exceeded theirs in one important regard. He could channel.

Jeb smiled grimly. Naturally, he had kept _that_ aspect of his nature secret, though he believed that the Captain might have guessed. Her wary treatment of him, perhaps… perhaps not. In this place, this 'Land of the Madmen' as the soldiers named it, wariness toward strangers was simply commonsensical, the accepted policy. Besides, had the Captain _known_ that he was _Souvraniene_ , his head would have like rolled upon the stone flags.

But she was a good Officer in her way, this Larynda of the Blood… she had overridden the objections of her men by insisting that cairns be raised for their fallen comrades. Had they done likewise with the unfortunate fellow in the forest? They would be dead if they had lingered, the awakened Fox Daemons he could hear outside would see to that… doubtless, they had taken the corpse – or what was left of it – with them, to observe funerary rites elsewhere, in a place of safety. If there even _was_ such a thing in this insane, deadly land.

Either way, Jeb doubted that he would be seeing the soldiers again, though he might well be visiting this Isle of theirs at some point… but not for a long while. There was much that he had to accomplish first. And if Davian was correct, then he would have the time he needed to do it. Abruptly, Jeb recalled that final conversation with Barashelle… his revealing to the celebrated Aes Sedai his innermost plans, since it was safe to do so as she was condemned to an imminent death, and he her executioner. Jeb had told Barashelle Sedai of his intention to build a power-base, to no longer be a follower but to have others follow his lead instead. He might have been washed-up by the tides of Fate on some strange shore, that of a savage and ungovernable land, far away from all that he knew… but Jeb had long practice at turning a misfortune into an opportunity. If anywhere needed a Ruler, then it was the Land of the Madmen. And who better than he?

"If not me, _who?_ If not now, _when?_ " Jeb demanded of the darkness around him, then threw back his head and laughed loud and long, the crazed cackling rebounding from the cavernous roof above. Outside, the Fox Daemons temporarily ceased their whining and snarling at this unwarranted sound, then redoubled it.

It took a while for Jeb to make himself stop laughing, but he managed it eventually, the echoes of his maniacal mirth fading gradually. He sighed. "I really _do_ have to stop doing that," he muttered ruefully, then put his best foot forward and embraced the darkness, beginning his search. did not take long for Jeb's Power-attuned senses to reveal that there was something strange about the centre of the vast edifice. Around the circumference of the dome, stacked in various alcoves and small chambers, lay the 'junk' that the big soldier had mentioned. Given time, Jeb might have examined it more closely, since the wreckage of the Age of Legends had always interested him… but there _was_ no time. This was a commodity that was fast running out for him. However, in the centre… there was something there, hidden from ordinary sight. And deep below, Jeb could sense _ter'angreal_. How many he was unsure, but they felt powerful.

Jeb sighed, knowing that he would have to channel. Seizing _saidin_ was not particularly difficult, he had been doing it for much of his misspent life, but _controlling_ those forces… _that_ was the real problem. Sinking to his knees, clutching his pounding skull, Jeb gritted his teeth and fought long and hard to exert his will over the raging forces that burned within. " _Man of fire… I am… man of fire…_ " Jeb groaned as he did so. And eventually, he triumphed in his battle with the One Power. For the time being.

Jeb raised his spinning head, blurred vision doubled and distorted, squinting at the bare, empty space beneath the centre of the dome. An illusion, he could see the way the dim light bent around whatever was there, rendering it invisible to any casual observer who did not possess his gift… his _curse_. An ancient and very powerful weave, but by no means impregnable. Almost, it seemed _intended_ to be found and dispelled, by the right sort of visitor to this forgotten place.

"Am I expected?" Jeb wondered to himself, then channelled a complex combination of all five Powers, the flows melding together almost of their own volition, without quite requiring his will to guide them. It was as though there were some hidden presence there, working alongside him. The senescent weaving vanished, and Jeb beheld a wide, spiralling ramp, leading down into the darkness. What lay below? His death? Possibly... but he had come this far, he had to go on, to find out what Fate, if there even was such a thing, had in store for him.

Leaving the burning torch lying on the ancient, cracked tiles, Jeb summoned a quintet of palely glowing globes that revolved above his head. He would go down into the darkness accoutred with the _saidin_ -fuelled signs of his station, or not at all. Whatever awaited him down there would know him for what he was. An Adept of the True Source. A man who, in more enlightened times, would have held the title of Aes Sedai and received the respect due to his rank. Well, he had been born in different days than those and it was not to be. And in any case, had he been around during the War of Power, Jeb rather suspected that he might not necessarily have been fighting on the side of the Light... he could even have been one of the Chosen.

Jeb thought of his long-ago visit to Shayol Ghul, and shuddered. That bizarre conversation with Ishamael which had taken place there, the pre-eminent Forsaken's hollow, hideous words emerging from the mouth of a Myrddraal... and people thought _him_ mad? They should spend a few moments conversing with the Betrayer of Hope, and then revise their opinion! Jeb shook his head. Best not to dwell upon such things... he had been young and foolish when he journeyed to the Bore, extremely ambitious also. Everyone made mistakes in their youth, did they not? He was finished with the Dark One... though was less sure that the Great Lord was entirely finished with _him_.

At the end of the long ramp, deep beneath the earth, lay a massive, circular chamber. The shining rods of a three-sided metallic pyramid stood in the centre, providing ample light, so Jeb let the luminescent orbs whirling above his head dissipate, releasing _saidin_ with relief, though taking the precaution of refilling his Well first. He peered curiously at the triple rods, the glowing nimbus that flickered within... he had the strong impression that if he went inside, he would be transported to another place, another reality... and a dangerous one at that. Whatever it was, it was undoubtedly a _ter'angreal_ , as was the tall, crystalline column to his right, though it seemed devoid of power, dead. And to his left...

Jeb stared. A large chair carved out of gleaming elstone, throne-like in its proportions... and there was someone sitting in it! "Hello?" Jeb called softly, as he cautiously approached, stepping over a musky animal pelt that lay discarded upon the floor. The seated figure did not move, or otherwise acknowledge his presence. Moving closer, Jeb could see why. Whoever it was had clearly expired a long time ago; the antique Troubadour's coat swathing the body was still, the chest did not rise nor fall, the sockets of the bronze mask worn by the corpse were dark and empty... _that_ was also a _ter'angreal_ , his Talent informed him, as was... Jeb gasped.

Cradled in golden gloved hands, resting on his lap, the dead man held a large huntsman's horn, skilfully worked in beaten silver, a narrow mouthpiece curling twice around as it tapered out to a wide bell. With a trembling finger, Jeb traced the ancient script inlaid into the instrument; _Tia mi Aven Moridin Isainde Vadin._ Jeb's surprised voice broke the deathly silence as he prized the ancient _ter'angreal_ from the stiff grasp, hesitantly lifting the silvered artefact of Legend and raising it on high...

"But... I thought me that the Horn of Valere was supposed to be cast in _gold!_ "

Up above, the pack of Fox Daemons were still waiting for Jeb to emerge, though loath to approach Hob's Hill too closely. If his suspicions about the pyramidical _ter'angreal_ down there and where it led to were correct, then he thought he knew _why_. But the fell creatures were clearly unwilling to let their prey escape either. Jeb stepped out into the fading sunlight – it seemed that he had been under the Hill much longer than he thought – and levelled his third acquisition at the daemons, preparing to annihilate them.

The first _ter'angreal_ Jeb was now wearing, and felt much better for it. The second _ter'angreal_ he held at his side; the arcane, silver Horn that he supposed he would get around to sounding at some point, in order to find out what exactly it _was_. But Jeb's third acquisition, which he had taken from the mysterious dead man, found in the deep pocket of his metallic-hued Troubadour's coat, was no mere _ter'angreal_. It was, in fact, a _sa'angreal_. And an extremely powerful one, at that.

Jeb sighted along the extended, pointing finger of the solid gold hand he held by its wrist, slowly filling himself with _saidin_ , wondering how best to dispose of these vile Fox Daemons... lightning, perhaps? If the flows he weaved originated from far above, the creature's particular ability to disrupt them would be nullified, surely? Yes, it had been a long while since he had slain an enemy with sky-fire... he would summon a storm. A _large_ storm.

But in the event, Jeb did not need to do anything of the sort. At the revelation of the ancient, bronze mask- _ter'angreal_ that he wore, fashioned in the likeness of a smiling fox's face, the daemonic creatures abruptly ceased their yipping, snarling and growling, then crept forward as close as they dared, abasing themselves abjectly upon the flagstones, grovelling amongst the bones whilst making ingratiating whining noises. Jeb blinked. The fox-mask artefact had quieted his manic ideation, dispelled the sour presence of the Taint to a far greater extent than ever the bronze torc- _ter'angreal_ had, and made seizing _saidin_ a matter of some ease again... but it also seemed to have a marked effect on these bestial Fox Daemons. There was recognition in their pale eyes, as well as something akin to awe. Jeb held-off from destroying the creatures for the time being. He found them repellent, yet was desirous to learn more concerning their origins. They might even prove useful to him..?

" _Do you know me, daemons?_ " Jeb demanded in the Old Tongue, his voice echoing hollowly from within the metallic confines of the ancient mask.

" _Mmassterr!_ " hissed the nearest Fox Daemon, raising its hideous face briefly before resuming its grovelling. More of the demons echoed this stark title, until they were all uttering it, interspersed with yipping sounds that held terror mixed with devotion. " _Mmmassstterrr!_ "

Jeb waved an impatient hand at them, not his own but the golden one, which he recognised from ancient lore as _Cair Osan_ , one of the more powerful _saidin-_ attuned _sa'angreal_ to have ever been created, almost as potent as _Callandor_ itself. Quite a find! It was one of a pair, naturally; the fabled Left Hand and Right Hand of Legend. The other _sa'angreal_ , _Cair Aran_ , had been in the keeping of the First amongst the Companions to the Dragon, Culan Cuhan, and was considered lost with him during the Breaking of the World, amidst the destruction of the Great Wave he summoned to destroy the City of Shorelle, in the extremity of his madness. But the provenance and location of _Cair Osan_ had always been more of a mystery. A mystery no longer...

Whether the Fox Daemons recognised the golden hand as a mighty device of the One Power that could exterminate them all easily, or were simply obeying Jeb's evident desire for peace and quiet, the creatures fell silent at this peremptory gesture. Waiting. Jeb considered. He really should put an end to these monstrosities and do this evil land one of the few favours it had received since the War of Power... and yet, for all that they disquieted and disgusted him, the Fox Daemons interested him also. He was curious. Ever had this been his blessing and his bane.

" _What_ are _you?_ " Jeb enquired.

" _Ffoxx Ddaemmonss!_ " the creatures chorused, answering noisily.

Jeb scowled. " _I know that! Who named you so?_ "

" _Yyou ddidd, Mmassterr!_ "

" _Indeed? When did I do that?_ "

" _Llonngg aggo!_ "

" _Wwhenn yyou ssummonned uss!_ "

" _Yyou bbidd uss awwaitt yyourr rretturnn!_ "

Jeb blinked. It seemed that the mysterious personage whose grave he had robbed, a powerful Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends presumably, was responsible for the presence of these dangerous creatures in the vicinity of Hob's Hill. And had given them their fanciful name, in addition. " _What were you called before then?_ "

The Fox Daemons raised their pallid eyes to stare at Jeb, then looked at each other blankly, clearly perplexed. It seemed that no-one had ever asked them this before. Eventually, one of the older-looking daemons rose to a furtive crouch, licking its thin lips with a long tongue, blinking its large, pale eyes, seemingly trying to remember something from the distant past. " _Mmisstake?_ " it growled, then; " _abbomminnationn!_ "

" _Yess!_ " hissed a female Fox Daemon excitedly, " _Ffatherr! Hee ccalledd uss thiss!_ " Several other daemons nodded their hideous heads sagely in agreement.

Jeb's brow furrowed with confusion behind the ancient mask- _ter'angreal_ that preserved his sanity. " _Father, say you? And who might he be?_ "

" _Hee mmade uss!"_ the Fox Daemons chanted in concert.

The older, more erudite Fox Daemon added; " _bbutt hee ddidd nnott llike uss! Hee wwass mmosst ddissppleassedd wwith hhiss mmisstakess!_ "

" _I can certainly see why!_ " Jeb observed drolly, finding the whole situation more than a little unusual, unreal even. He was very tired, exhausted in fact... it had been a long day. " _Where did you Fox Daemons dwell, before you came here, to Hob's Hill?_ " he asked.

" _Thee Wastellanndss!_ "

" _Inn thee Wasstelandds!_ "

" _Wwasttelannddsss!_ "

Jeb was glad that the fox-mask partially protected his ears from the resulting cacophony. " _Alright, don't all answer at once! Now listen, monsters; I command you to return to these Wastelands and_ remain there. _When I require your services, I shall send for you. Do you understand?_ "

" _Yyess, Mmasstterr!_ " the Fox Daemons responded loyally. They rose from their subservient postures and began to slink away, giving Jeb a wide berth, keeping a respectful distance, loping toward the trees to the south. As the older, wiser daemon passed him, something occurred to Jeb and he pointed the finger of _Cair Osan_ at it.

" _Wait, you. One more question..._ "

The Fox Daemon paused expectantly, crouching and cocking its head to one side, pale eyes staring. " _Mmassterr?_ "

" _Why would you and your kin not enter Hob's Hill? What is inside that prevents you from infesting that place with your presence?_ "

A hint of fear flickered briefly over those bestial, inhuman features. Jeb recalled the same look in the eyes of the first Fox Daemon to accost him, when he had mentioned the Eelfinn. " _Yyou knnoww thiss, Mmassterr! Yyou ttestt uss?_ "

" _I do_ ," Jeb answered glibly, the lie echoing from within the confines of the mask- _ter'angreal_ he wore. " _Well?_ "

Again, the old Fox Daemon licked its lips nervously, then answered hesitantly; " _wwe ddo nnott ggo inntto thee hhill ass thee Ggate iss ttherre... ourr wwayy hhomme tto bblessedd Ssinnddholl! Bbutt thee llightt... thee tterribblle llightt... itt kkillss uss!_ "

Jeb nodded thoughtfully, watching through the eyeholes in the ancient, bronze fox-mask as the Fox Daemon hastened away on all fours, as the last of the fell creatures disappeared into the forest gloom, returning to their ancestral homeland.

"The light destroys you, eh?" Jeb commented. He chuckled softly, and this time, the mirth held little trace of madness. "Yes… I imagine that it would."

* * *

 _Defending a fortified position is simplicity itself. Remain behind the walls, if walls there be. Utilise your archers at key points along the line. Protect all vulnerable areas as strongly as ever you may. Kill as many of the attacking force as possible. Above all; watch your enemy, watch them closely. Know what they will do before they have done it, then plan your counterstroke accordingly. And finally; pray fervently to the Divine Creator that your foe do not number in their ranks certain of those accursed individuals who channel the destructive male-half of the One Power, the Shadow-tainted evil that Broke the World. This is the sole factor in warfare against which there is no adequate defence._

 **Lord-Marshall Madoc Comadrin, Ducal Regent of Farashelle**

 **circa: FY 357 (extract taken from a surviving fragment of** _ **Fog and Steel**_ **)**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine * The Battle**

 **Act One – Opening Moves**

"I do not think that I like the look of this."

Rashiel Tamor, Aes Sedai of no particular Ajah, glanced at the person who had spoken; her oldest friend, the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar. Ysmet was looking unaccustomedly worried as she lowered the brass-bound telescope, which Rashiel promptly and rather rudely snatched from her, raising it to her own pale eye.

Ysmet turned her head back toward the camp, below the parapet on which they stood. " _Raab!_ " she yelled.

"Coming, Sailmistress!" responded a familiar, breathless voice.

" _Captain!_ " Ysmet corrected, though her heart was clearly not in it. She seemed almost nervous, unlikely though that was. Examining the stranger's ship that had heaved-to out beyond the reef, not to mention its crew, Rashiel shared her concern. They were certainly a fearsome-looking lot…

"Are they Sea Folk?" Rashiel wondered, peering at the heavily-tattooed sailors, "the women aren't wearing anything on their upper halves and are sporting bizarre nose-jewellery, but they don't seem like any _Atha'an Miere_ that I have ever encountered."

Aboard the ship, a heavy anchor splashed down into the sea and an organised commotion began on the main-deck. Rashiel lowered the spyglass, her brow furrowed with trepidation. "They are launching boats," she murmured, "this could well be a problem…"

Ysmet snatched her telescope back and took a long look. "Only one boat, so far," she commented, "but yes, some of them are certainly coming ashore."

Raab joined them on the parapet, having scrambled nimbly up the ladder. At the same time, atop the foremast of the unknown ship, a silken flag broke out, rippling in the breeze. A black banner, embroidered with a grinning white skull, crossed daggers beneath. A far-from friendly image, in Rashiel's estimation…

Ysmet lowered the telescope and thrust it impatiently toward Raab. "Who are they? Sea Folk? _Your_ people?"

"I _have_ no people," Raab muttered sulkily, "I am _outcast_ …" He raised the spyglass to a dark eye and stared intently; first, at the tattooed crew swarming upon the decks of the vessel, then up at the grim flag which fluttered above them. After which, Raab lowered the telescope, dusky face slowly growing paler.

" _Well?_ " Ysmet demanded, when the _Atha'an Miere_ renegade did not immediately speak, "who might they be?"

"Storm Children," Raab croaked, then glanced at the Noblewoman and Aes Sedai of Ebou Dar, attempting a sickly-looking smile, though it more closely resembled a grimace. "Darkfriend brigands from the Smoking Islands, pirates and killers of the Waketa, the once-dead Clan that swore service to the Shadow two millennia gone… devoted adherents of the Father of Storms, at least three times our strength in number, skilled fighters all…" Raab swallowed with difficulty, then added in firmer tones; "every one of us; we are assuredly going to die."

* * *

Irmilla Nadona, Friend of the Dark and accomplished murderess, raised her silk skirts and took a tremulous step from the bow of the longboat, splashing down into the shallow surf, feeling firm, wet sand yield beneath her bare feet. It felt _wonderful_ to be back on land again! Though her legs were rather wobbly… she stumbled, and Duadh's rough, tattooed hands encircled her slim hips, steadying her. Irmilla shoved him away. "Keep your greasy paws to yourself, Duadh!" she snarled.

Duadh grinned, gold teeth flashing in the bright sunlight, then strode up the beach, unslinging his wicked axe from his broad back and swinging it back and forth. Irmilla had to take a couple of running steps to catch up with him, a dozen heavily-armed Clan Waketa crew falling in around them, the Samma N'Sei channeler now known as 'Mastri' bringing up the rear. The Shadowrunning Aielman glanced about himself curiously as he paced along; his red veil swathed his nose and mouth, but Irmilla suspected that he was smiling the small, strange smile that seemed a permanent expression now.

Though other things preoccupied Irmilla; the way the ground seemed rock-hard and immobile in spite of it being comprised of shifting sand, the odd fashion in which it was not tilting back and forth… clearly, she had been aboard a ship for far too long! And up ahead; a rudely-built stockade, a line of waiting figures stood atop it, watching them warily as they approached. With good reason, Irmilla considered… the Waketa _were_ going to kill them all, were they not? But first, she required information.

As though reading Irmilla's thoughts, Duadh grumbled; "why do we not just give them all to the salt, as is only right and proper? Why must you _talk_ to them, 'prentice?"

Irmilla sighed. Hopefully, at some point in the coming encounter, Duadh would become fatally acquainted with the business-end of a sword. Probably not, though… her luck had never been _that_ good. "Our Dread Mistress sent us here to find her enemies… these shipwrecked mariners may well know their whereabouts… and _cease_ calling me 'prentice,' I am your _Windfinder!_ "

"That you assuredly are _not_ ," Duadh refuted, giving Irmilla a disapproving sideways stare with his dark, murderous eyes, but then his stern expression cleared and he looked straight ahead, something of a spring in his step. He even whistled a few bars of a jaunty sea shanty…

"What are you in such a fine mood about?" Irmilla asked suspiciously.

Duadh shrugged his wide, bare shoulders, causing his perched parrot to squawk in protest. "I am about to slay some people," he explained, "this knowledge makes me happy." Irmilla sniffed disparagingly. Duadh eyed her drolly. "Does it not feel good to kill?" he asked.

"Well, of course it does!" Irmilla responded scathingly, "but unlike _you_ , I happen to enjoy _other_ things as well."

"Oh?"

"There is more to life than just chopping people's heads off or drowning them, you know!"

Duadh looked quizzical. "There is? Such as?"

"Fine clothes, excellent wines, wealth, power, the intimate company of handsome young men…"

"I am not remotely interested in that _last_ activity," Duadh pointed-out.

"Not _you_ , cretin! _Me!_ " Irmilla might have added something about 'the pursuit of immortality' but decided to leave it there, for all that she shared her Mistress's obsession with living forever.

" _Superficial!_ " Duadh remarked contemptuously.

"Worse than that; _decadent!_ " spoke a muffled voice over their shoulders. The Aielman, Mastri, had been unashamedly eavesdropping upon their conversation, he was now walking directly behind Irmilla and Duadh, moving with his customary disturbing stealth. The Clan Waketa crew gave him a wide berth. "You pitiful Wetlanders are _all_ decadent and addicted to your own selfish pleasures," Mastri further commented, then chuckled softly. Irmilla scowled, as did Duadh. Mastri clearly did not care. "The Boat-Chief has the right of it; the only worthwhile pursuit in life lies in the waking of one's enemies." Mastri shrugged his bony shoulders. "Or anyone else who happens to annoy you," he added, reflectively.

"I warn you, Shadowrunning Aielfish," Duadh growled, "name me 'Boat-Chief' but once more, and I shall take my axe and-"

"This is close enough, I think," Irmilla interjected smoothly, "some of those sailors up there are aiming crossbows at us. It would be a shame to come all this way only to die so mundane and boring a death…"

The Friends of the Dark had come to within a hundred paces of the palisade that encircled the camp by this point, and ceased their advance. A tall, fierce-looking woman up there, her dark hair plaited into a long braid draped over one shoulder, shouted down to them; "that's close enough, Shadowsworn! Come no further or I shall give the command to loose our bolts into your filthy hides!"

Irmilla examined her. She had the sound of Ebou Dar in her speech, the complexion of Southern Altara to her skin… clearly, like her, a native of the Westlands. A Noblewoman too, by her accents, dress and haughty attitude. Irmilla took an instant dislike to her, though she was a stranger. But the woman standing next to the Noble, swathed in a maroon, silken gown, pale eyes coldly fixed on the intruders… she certainly recognised _her_.

"Hello, Rashiel!" Irmilla called out, cheerfully, "fancy meeting _you_ here… it is a small world, is it not?"

" _Irmilla!_ " the young Aes Sedai spat, "you evil, Shadow-loving bitch!

Irmilla laughed delightedly. " _Really!_ Is that any way to address an old friend and fellow novice? I can see that the years have not mellowed you overmuch, dearest Rashiel!"

"We were _never_ friends and you murdered Revan!"

"The handsome youngling? Well _of course_ I did; he found out I was oath-bound to the Great Lord and was going to _tell_ on me!"

" _Bitch!_ "

"You already said that. Do try to be a little more imaginative with your insults…"

Rashiel gripped the small, ivory-hilted knife that hung on a cord betwixt her breasts. "By my marriage-blade, I swear that I will avenge Revan, and all others that you have slain!" she promised, darkly.

Irmilla arched her eyebrows. "Are you _still_ wearing that tatty old thing around your neck? How quaint! And your vengeance for my victims would comprise a very long list, I am afraid…"

Rashiel bared her teeth at Irmilla, but seemed too angry to speak further.

"Is _this_ what you call 'gaining information?'" Duadh muttered, "trading jibes with some Ebou Dari witch?"

"Silence, Duadh!" Irmilla hissed back at him, "you do things _your_ way, I'll do them _mine_ … I am just greeting an old rival whom I soon intend to kill slowly, that is all."

The Noblewoman loudly spoke up once more; "there is nothing of worth for you here, brigands. Return to your ship and sail away, into the nearest maelstrom, preferably… or face the consequences! Challenge my will and I shall see to it that you piratical Darkfriend scum decorate the trees at the ends of hempen nooses!"

The Clan Waketa crew eyed each other… then burst out laughing, their harsh mirth echoing back from the cliffs beyond the camp. Duadh grinned savagely, shaking his deadly axe in the air. "You would hang us?" he shouted back, "will I lend you some rope if you have none to spare?! The Waketa are not _yours_ to kill, foolish Shorebound wench! Only the Father of Storms can do that, and in his own good time!"

On Duadh's shoulder, the parrot stirred, raising a brightly-plumed head. " _Squaaa! Stormfather!_ " it squawked loudly.

Even from a distance, Irmilla could see the Ebou Dari Noblewoman's large brown eyes widen with surprise. "Did that odd bird just _say_ something?" she demanded.

Duadh nodded complacently, scratching his parrot's feathery neck. "Aye, that he did," he confirmed.

Irmilla frowned impatiently. That bloody bird must have been an odious Gleeman or a strutting Bard in a former life, she considered, it was always showing-off, seeking attention and adulation! "Never mind that!" She turned toward the stockade, inadequately defended by their prospective victims. "We would have words with you, before we settle our differences. Will you treat with us? Send down three of your own to talk, and I swear on my Oath to the Great Lord of the Dark that no harm shall come to them." She smiled cruelly. " _Yet_."

Irmilla could see the Noblewoman discussing it with the hated Aes Sedai, a strange, gnarled little man with crude tattoos on his face lingering beside them, shaking his head and clearly objecting to the idea… she glanced imperiously at the burly Sailmaster of the _Stormchaser_. "Order your people back to the boat." Duadh frowned. " _Do it!_ "

Reluctantly, Duadh dismissed the dozen Waketa men and women of his crew, who trudged back toward the beached longboat, evidently disappointed that there was to be no blood-letting in the immediate future.

"There will be plenty of mayhem for all, ere long," Irmilla reassured Duadh, "but first, we need to know about the Aes Sedai and the Spawn of the Dragon…"

"Dragonspawn! I have not even _seen_ this creature," Duadh grumbled, "what does it look like, assuming that it even exists? Does it have wings?"

"What, like a Draghkar? No, of course not! Well, I don't _think_ so… I haven't seen it either…" Irmilla gave her response distractedly, eyes fixed on the stockade and the discussion taking place atop it, wishing that she knew how to read lips. Her Dread Mistress could, and had attempted to teach her this skill, but to no avail…

"What of the Lost One and his men, and Edaryne who was to go with them?" Mastri wondered softly, possibly speaking to himself in his veiled, muffled tones. "Do you think that they are here yet, somewhere in this strange land?"

Irmilla waited a moment to see if Mastri would answer his own question, perhaps in a differing voice, but he did not… so she did. "The _other_ expedition our Mistress contemplates?" Irmilla shrugged, carelessly. "Hopefully, the Portal Stone sent them all straight to the Pit, or somewhere even less pleasant," she muttered spitefully, " _especially_ that arrogant, thieving Tinker boy!" Irmilla's gaze remained on the top of the palisade, now bereft of those who had addressed them, occupied only by a dozen gaunt, shabby sailors clutching crossbows in nervous hands.

"The Shorebound Friends? We will not need them," Duadh observed confidently, "those shallow-water wretches up there look half-dead already… my people will slaughter them without breaking sweat." He eyed Irmilla enquiringly; "that Tar Valon witch who does not like you – I cannot imagine _why! –_ is she more powerful than yourself, 'prentice?"

Irmilla shook her head curtly. "About the same." She smiled coldly, taking a dark, heart-shaped jewel from the pocket of her lace blouse and balancing it on her palm. "But then, I suspect that _she_ does not have an _angreal_."

Abruptly, with a creaking sound, a section of the palisade swung outwards, lowered slowly to the sand by a rope to either side. Three figures stepped through the aperture; the Noblewoman, the scowling Rashiel and an exotic, dark-skinned youth wearing only a pair of baggy trews. His handsome features were covered in intricate, swirling tattoos.

"Ayyad," Duadh muttered, before turning to Mastri. "Beware, Samma N'Sei, that Sharaman can most likely channel."

"I already sense that he does," Mastri's indistinct voice responded, "he is strong in the Power… but I am _stronger._ "

" _And_ uglier!" Irmilla commented snidely, taking approving note of the Sharan youth's fine physique.

The trio began to walk cautiously towards the waiting Friends of the Dark, the Noblewoman's hand resting on the hilt of her sheathed rapier. In addition, tucked into her belt on the other side, she had a long dagger with a carved ivory hilt. Completing her arsenal; a small, bejewelled marriage-knife hung about her neck on a silver chain. It looked finely-made and rather valuable, Irmilla had always had a penchant for precious stones, and resolved to take the decorative item from the Ebou Dari slut's corpse. Even at a distance, Irmilla could tell that Rashiel was holding _saidar_ , so she embraced the Source also, accessing it through her _angreal_ , shivering with pleasure as the sweetness of the female-half of the One Power flowed into her.

But then, another individual slipped out of the open gateway, hastening after the others; a tall Aielman with reddish-gold hair and a crimson orb set in the right-hand socket of his much-scarred face, balancing the piercing blue eye to the other side. Oddly for an Aiel, he did not wear the _cadin'sor_ but a dark and dirty robe, flapping about him… and even stranger, he did not appear to be armed, but even so…

"I said three, not _four!_ " Irmilla objected loudly, "can't you ignorant Light-lovers _count?!_ " The Noblewoman glared at her, then turned to the one-eyed Aielman, remonstrating with him and pointing back to the stockade, but he shook his head firmly so she shrugged and continued her progress towards them, her three compatriots following. "Try any treachery and I'll burn you all to cinders!" Irmilla warned the enemy when they came to a halt ten paces away.

Rashiel scowled furiously. " _You_ are the treacherous one, Irmilla!" she spat, "you betrayed the White Tower itself!"

"And was glad to do so!" Irmilla retorted, "that crumbling edifice languishing at the heart of Tar Valon was unworthy of my loyalty… and did you but know how many of the Black Ajah walk its halls, then you would truly fear the Shadow!"

Rashiel sneered. Irmilla recalled from their time as novices together that she had always been good at sneering… "I am well aware of how far the rot has spread, Darkfriend treacher! Though there are thirteen less of your Shadow Sisters than there were… _my_ doing!" The Noblewoman nodded approvingly, and patted Rashiel on the back.

Irmilla shrugged, unconcerned. "I care not. They weren't Sisters of mine, I claim no kinship with the Blacks. Do you see a serpent-ring 'pon _my_ finger?" She glanced at the golden snake biting its own tail that decorated Rashiel's hand, a little enviously if truth be told… which, with Irmilla was something of a rarity. But still… she had been only a few weeks shy of her Testing for the Ring when she had been forced to flee the Tower… it might have been laudable, to prove herself in that wise.

Rashiel laughed tauntingly. Irmilla frowned, as certain ill memories of her novice days came back to her. Taunting laughter… Rashiel had always been good at _that_ , too… "You would have been too weak to attain the Ring _or_ the Shawl, Irmilla! Too bad that you did not attempt it, and disappear inside the Testing _ter'angreal_ , never to be seen again! _Murderess!_ "

Irmilla narrowed her eyes and opened rosebud lips to give as good as she got, but the tall Aielman garbed in the dark robe forestalled her. He had been staring intently at Mastri throughout the exchange, now he spoke up in a high, clear voice; "I believe that I _know_ you, fellow! Lower that unseemly veil, which is red and not black, and show to me your _face!_ "

Mastri promptly complied, pulling aside the cloth and smiling broadly, exposing his horrid filed, teeth. "I see you, Cohradin! I see also that you are Da'tsang now…" he ceased smiling and pursed his lips with disapproval, "…I cannot say that I am _surprised_ by this!"

Irmilla watched as the one-eyed Aielman named 'Cohradin' scowled darkly. "I see you, Medelin, the foolish Thunder Walker! Tell to me why you wear a red veil, in stead of a proper black one, and also why your teeth are now pointy? What do you here, amongst these lowly Shadowrunners?"

Mastri scratched his hollow cheek with a dirty fingernail, considering, then answered proudly; "I _am_ a Shadowrunner now. I am Samma N'Sei, in fact. It is a fine thing, to be an Eye Blinder in service to the Great Lord of the Dark!"

Cohradin shook his head forcibly. "It is _not_ fine to be an Eye Blinder, though I do not know what that even _is!_ But I saw one who looked as you, when last I was up in the Blight, a red-veiled villain of evil aspect… I chased the suspicious fool to demand of him his purpose, but a large and slimy monster of the Shadow ate him whole ere I could ask my questions!"

Mastri was clearly not listening, was droning on self-importantly; "and you should know before I wake you, Cohradin, that my name is no longer 'Medelin' but _Mastri_ , which means-"

" _Silence_ , both of you!" Irmilla possessed no patience for this nonsense. She had _not_ arranged this meet so that a pair of addled Aielmen could reminisce and threaten each other! "You savages from the Waste are all _mad_ , and clearly belong in this insane place, but _we_ do not!" She turned briskly to the Ebou Dari Noblewoman, whose desirable marriage-knife she intended to despoil. "You appear to be the leader of that rabble up there in the driftwood shanty-town or whatever it is… I am Irmilla Nadona, initiated adept of the Shadow. Who might you be?"

The Noblewoman eyed Irmilla with great contempt and declined to answer. "She is the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, in line of succession to the Throne of Winds," Rashiel hissed, making the introductions for her companion, adding; "and we are no _rabble!_ "

"Yes you are!" Ysmet goaded, "you look _exactly_ like what you are, in fact; mendicant shipwrecked mariners in sore need of a rescue that shall never come!"

Both Ebou Dari females glared at Irmilla, who smiled insolently at them. The Aielmen continued to scowl at each other, and the facially-tattooed youth was watching Mastri cautiously with his dark, almost black eyes, in addition.

Duadh's dangerous gaze had been lingering curiously on the carved ivory hilt of the dagger tucked in the Mitsobar woman's belt, now he broke the strained silence. "Where is the Gleeman?" he demanded, of no-one in particular.

Ysmet stared at him with ill-disguised consternation. "What Gleeman?" she asked carefully.

"The one called 'Roth Blucha.' He who wrote the message."

"What message?" Rashiel enquired innocently.

Duadh frowned. "By the Siren's Teats, pretend not ignorance with _me_ , Shorebound strumpets! I am Duadh din Retif Blue Ring, scourge of the seven seas, not some witless bilge-boy to be confounded by the likes of you! The message that was in the _bottle_ , of course!"

"The Red Bull bottle," Mastri mumbled, adding to the confusion.

" _Strumpets!_ " squawked Duadh's horrid parrot. " _Squaaa! Bottle!_ "

"It did it again!" Rashiel exclaimed, staring at the talking bird with amazement.

Ysmet Mitsobar's face darkened. "Roth…" she muttered.

Irmilla smirked. "The message we found led us here, incidentally." She gestured at the coral reef offshore, the masts of the drowned ship projecting from the lapping waves. "It was quite specific."

" _Roth!_ You and your bloody silly messages in bottles!" the Noblewoman Ysmet fumed, before composing herself. She regarded Duadh with loathing. "My husband is not here, pirate," she revealed, "which is just as well for him!" Duadh blinked, Irmilla raised an eyebrow. Clearly, the Lady Ysmet did not mean on account of the Storm Children's wrath, but her own! "Well, you simpering Darkfriend?" the Noblewoman snarled at Irmilla, "you wanted to talk… so talk!"

Irmilla smiled sweetly. "You are a Lady of House Mitsobar, then? Should I curtsy before addressing you?"

"You should grovel upon the ground and abjectly beg forgiveness of the Creator for your countless crimes!" Rashiel shouted angrily.

Irmilla ignored the hot-tempered young Aes Sedai, explaining to Ysmet Mitsobar; "at the behest of my Dread Mistress, I am sent here seeking three more of my old novice chums, a trio of foolhardy Sisters of the Tower who have defied her. I would locate their abominable servant also; a strange creature apparently, a kind of inhuman, protean Warder by all accounts… though not of this Age, but that previous."

The Lady Ysmet sneered, she was almost as good at it as Rashiel. "If by _that_ you mean the Age of Legends, why do you not just _say_ 'the Age of Legends?'"

"She was always mealy-mouthed as a novice," Rashiel observed disparagingly, "pompous too, ever trying to sound cleverer than she actually _was_... we all called her 'Twisty-tongue!'"

Irmilla scowled furiously. She did not like to be reminded of her less-than-complimentary novice-name, nor of her miserable days spent wearing the white dress and her unpopularity amongst her peers... "Well, Rashiel, perhaps you will recall that the novices all called _you_ -"

" _Trollop!_ " squawked Duadh's rude parrot.

Rashiel gasped. "How did it know _that?_ " she wondered, agog.

"It didn't, imbecile!" Irmilla snapped, "the beastly bird just likes to shout-"

" _Harlot! Squaaa!_ "

"- _shout_ rude words. Duadh teaches them to it."

"I do not," Duadh responded truculently, stroking his vile parrot's head while it snapped at him with its large and vicious beak.

Abruptly, the Sharaman with the tattooed face, who had evidently not been following what was being said, pointed warningly at Mastri, whom he had been staring at intently throughout the exchange. " _Souvraniene!_ " he declared, then furrowed his brow, swirling lines on his forehead writhing, clearly attempting to summon further words in a language not his own. "Him... channel!"

The one-eyed Aielman Cohradin reacted to this revelation with enthusiastic accusation. "So you are now an accursed Madman, Medelin?"

" _Mastri!_ "

"This explains much! Always were you a strange fellow! Everyone at Wet Sands said so, even the other _Sha'mad Conde_ … _and_ your mother! _Now_ I wisely see the reason that you did not honourably attempt to wake the Dark One from the Shadow Dream, for you stand revealed as a loathly Shadowrunner!"

Mastri frowned. "I did not serve the Shadow when first I began to channel, Cohradin… I mean; Da'tsang… on the way back from the Sharan Trade Hold with the others of our Sept, bearing our bolts of silk-"

"Silk, yes!" the Ayyad youth uttered, but was ignored.

"-I began to have strange dreams and to touch the Source… I caused fires and other ill happenings… there was an earthquake, though just a small one… and back at Wet Sands Hold, I then made a goat explode by staring at it!"

"That had better not have been _my_ goat," Cohradin warned, grimly.

Mastri shook his head vehemently. "It was not _your_ horrible and strange-looking goat, Cohradin… I mean; Da'tsang… but another, more valuable goat, that of our Sept Chief, Aluric."

" _That_ _Aethan Dor_ fool is now Chief?" Cohradin shook his head disapprovingly, before demanding; "but what became of the foolish _Seia Doon_ Timburlan, who was Sept Chief when I and the other _Sovin Nai_ were banished from Wet Sands Hold by old Sadora to go and seek out the Car'a'carn in the Wetlands?"

Mastri blinked, confused. "Was that a question?"

" _Yes_ , you big fool, with your silly pointed teeth! Timburlan?"

Mastri shrugged, raising and then lowering bony shoulders. "If you must know, I heard that whilst returning from the raid on the Tomanelle, our Sept Chief Timburlan was bitten on the face by a venomous leaping spider!"

Cohradin laughed harshly. "Typical of that Black Eyed fool to be waked in so dishonourable and embarrassing a fashion! When the leaping spider attacks, you do not just stand there and let it jump onto your face and bite you! You _duck!_ "

"Yes. Anyway, after the regrettable incident with the exploded goat, the Wise One Sadora struck me many times with her stick and then sent me north to Shayol Ghul, to slay the Great Lord of the Dark…" Mastri trailed-off, blinking. "Then… something happened… I know not what…" his confused expression faded from his gaunt face and he smiled widely; "…and now I am Samma N'Sei, an algai'd'siswai of the Shadow!" His sludgy green eyes narrowed dangerously as he then addressed Cohradin in menacing tones; "I always disliked you Cohradin… I mean; Da'tsang… _especially_ after you led my brother into the Blight on one of your ridiculous Worm-hunts and he did not return… I shall very much enjoy waking you, boastful fool that you are!"

Cohradin's scarred lip curled with contempt. "Am I meant to be impressed by that meagre threat? I am not. _You_ are the fool, for only the truly foolish run with the Shadow… no-one will sing songs for you when _you_ are waked, Medelin!"

" _Mastri!_ "

"Huh. Call yourself what you will in the brief time that you have left, Shadowrunner. It matters not, for you are but a walking _dead man!_ " With that, Cohradin turned and stalked away, heading back to the stockade. Mastri glared after him for a moment, then resumed his strange smile. The Sharan youth continued to watch him warily.

Irmilla cleared her throat pointedly. "Well, now that the nonsensical Aiel-blather is _finally_ done with, perhaps you might care to answer my question… three Aes Sedai and their unusual Warder? Any ideas, hmm?"

"Even if we knew of them, why should we tell _you_ , Darkfriend?" the Lady Ysmet demanded, whilst Rashiel stared at Irmilla coldly, a promise of deadly retribution in her pale eyes.

Irmilla shrugged, unconcernedly. "I was sent here to find _them_ , not _you._ " She eyed Rashiel slyly. "Tell me where your wayward Sisters are hiding and perhaps I shall let you live, dearest Rashiel, your Regal friend also."

Ysmet Mitsobar and Rashiel Tamor exchanged a wordless glance, then the Ebou Dari Noblewoman turned back to Irmilla, no fear in her clear, brown eyes, but a certain amount of fatalism. "Let us live? No. You won't. You serve the Father of Lies, and emulate him with every false word that your vile mouth utters. Whatever we tell you – and that will be _nothing_ , incidentally – you shall seek to kill us, irregardless." She smiled icily. "Do your worst, Shadowsworn liar."

Irmilla inclined her head mockingly. "Oh, but we shall!" She turned back to Rashiel. "I'll take you alive, my dear, and you will answer every one of my questions to my full satisfaction before you beg for the sweet release of death. Why, if there is time, perhaps we can even indulge in some warm-hearted nostalgia concerning the good old days, back in the novice quarters!"

"I think not," Rashiel responded in wintry tones, and left it at that.

"Well, then there is no more to be said," Irmilla declared, before her eyes narrowed threateningly. "For _now_ , at least."

Without another word, the two women of Ebou Dar turned and walked away, back toward their camp, the facially-tattooed young man giving Mastri a final cautious glance before following. Irmilla watched them go.

"We could have taken them both, then and there," Duadh complained.

Irmilla shook her head decisively. "I swore no treachery on my Oaths to the Great Lord, Duadh. There are some things that it is wise _not_ to lie about. Not many, but some."

Duadh snorted, clearly not agreeing. The trio of enemies disappeared inside the stockade and the gate was raised behind them. Irmilla sneered. The roughly-built palisade was but a paltry defence, it would scarcely serve to protect the camp for long.

"Is it time?" Duadh asked, softly. Irmilla nodded. " _Finally!_ " Duadh pulled a short, wooden tube from his sash, a fuse projecting from the base. He dug in the pocket of his britches, producing tinder and flint, but the Samma N'Sei intervened.

"No need," Mastri murmured, "let me." He waved a hand and the end of the fuse abruptly flared alight. Duadh bit back a muffled curse and hastily held the tube aloft; sparks exploded from the end and a burst of red flame shot high above, flaring brightly.

Irmilla glanced over her shoulder at the anchored _Stormchaser_ , out beyond the coral reef. At their Sailmaster's signal, the rest of the longboats were swiftly lowered to the water, Clan Waketa killers festooned with weaponry leaping nimbly down into them. Loaded with threescore bloodthirsty brigands, a pair of rowers at each oar, the boats began to pull swiftly for the shore.

"It begins," Duadh observed, forebodingly.

Irmilla smiled viciously. "Let battle commence," she whispered.

* * *

As he peered through the foliage at the edge of the forest, Lord Thaeus of House Desiama narrowed intense, blue eyes. From his place of concealment he watched the enemy closely as they leapt out of their boats and waded through the surf to form up on the beach in a loose mob. They looked to be a formidable foe by local standards, but clearly had no idea how to dress ranks or appear soldierly. Thaeus' time in the Legions had taught him that, and more. One good cavalry charge by a half-dozen squadrons would bloody them nicely, sweep them back into the sea, but unfortunately this was not an option. In his travels, Thaeus had not seen a horse in the Land of the Madmen, was unsure if they even had them here. Just the odd, sheepish creatures that hopped about on their large hind legs, and the annoying dog-like beasts that kept him awake at night with their incessant yelping and barking…

As Thaeus spied upon the invaders, he bared his teeth slightly, without being aware that he was doing it. He had never been a particularly fervent Child of the Light, not near so fanatical as some, but his years spent wearing the white cloak and golden sunburst had not endeared him to Darkfriends… and that was what these brigands were, according to Raab, some sort of Shadowsworn Sea Folk Clan who served the Father of Storms, their name for Shai'tan. As if they had not had enough dangers to face already! But is was likely that these Darkfriend _Atha'an Miere_ had not stumbled upon their quarry by chance, were here at the command of the evil old Hag who had vowed vengeance upon his sister…

Thaeus' brow furrowed with concern at the thought of Ellyth and her dire predicament as captive of the Laughing God, whoever that particular Madman was… The worry only increased when his mind turned to Feir, his eldritch Lady, who had gone to confront this powerful _souvraniene_ and his many followers, taking with her just a strange girl who talked to wolves! And there was the wolf too, he supposed… the three of them setting themselves against an army of dangerous male-channelers, while he hid himself in the bushes, prior to battling pirates. Something that he had always wished to do, admittedly, ever since he had been a small boy in the Manor House's library, avidly reading the exploits of Jain Farstrider and other adventurers of his ilk. But the reality of the situation was gravely different from the lurid fantasies of his childhood. Thaeus sighed softly. Ever since the Family Curse had fallen upon him and he had begun to channel the One Power, he had felt events rapidly spiralling out of his control. But who could really say that they had control over their own fate? Precious few.

The Darkfriends, about three score in number, had formed into a long double line and had begun to march up the beach, bare feet scuffing in the sand. The fierce sunlight glinted off their steel blades and axe-heads, shone on the garish tattoos that decorated their torsos. These 'Waketa' as Raab had named them, were clearly a more serious threat than the lesser Shadowsworn Sea Folk renegades that Thaeus and his companions had fought in the shoals of the Dead Sea, beneath the shadow of the Blight. Wolves, as opposed to mangy dogs. The Hag was no fool, had expended her weakest troops in the first battle, saving her best soldiers for now, when her enemy were at their weakest. But how had the Darkfriends known where to seek for them? The foolish Gleeman husband of the Lady Ysmet might have provided an immediate location with his silly bottled message… but what had sent the brigands to the Land of the Madmen in the first place? And how had they voyaged here so _fast?_

Thaeus clearly recognised the anchored ship out in the bay as the same which had pursued them on the Dead Sea, half a world away and a scant week past… evidently, there was some working of the Power involved here. The Hag knew where they were, had already dispatched a patrol of her Shadowspawn servants through the Portal Stone to search for them… there would undoubtedly be more of her wicked minions coming via the same arcane route, assuming that they were not already here. Perhaps the Hag would come herself? Thaeus certainly hoped so, he would very much like to put an end to her evil existence. He would take her head… no, that was too quick, too merciful… he would use his _fires_ … he would _burn_ her…

"Are you alright, Lord Whitecloak?"

The pair of voices spoke simultaneously from behind, pitched low so as not to reveal their position. Thaeus turned, blinking, a reddish mist fading from behind his eyes. The twin Warders of Shrina Sedai crouched there, watching Thaeus carefully, their dark eyes holding more than a hint of wariness.

"Yes, I am fine… why wouldn't I be?" Thaeus mumbled in response.

The Twins exchanged a meaningful glance. "You were whispering to yourself," explained one.

"You sounded angry," added the other.

Thaeus shook his head, trying to clear the buzzing sensation within his mind. "I was?"

The Twins nodded gravely, continuing to eye Thaeus with caution. He glared at them. "Stop looking at me like that! I haven't gone raving mad just yet!"

The identical Gaidin brothers shrugged simultaneously and complied with Thaeus' wishes, turning their eyes back to the curved, Power-wrought blade that lay upon the dead leaves between them.

"It is my turn," said the Twin on the left.

"It is not," responded the Twin on the right, "you had it yesterday."

"Only for part of the afternoon and the evening… you forgot to give it to me in the morning, remember?"

Thaeus sighed again. _Surely_ these peculiar, matching Mayener Warders were not _still_ arguing over which of them would get to use the good sword in the coming battle, as opposed to the more mundane blade that had not been forged by and Aes Sedai, long ago? But they were…

"I did not forget! I retained the sword in the morning because you neglected to ask for it, brother!"

"Well then, _I_ forgot… you should have reminded me, brother!"

Thaeus cleared his throat quietly, to get their attention; the twin Gaidin glanced at him. "You _do_ realise that we are most likely all about to perish fighting against odds of three-to-one?" he reminded them. The Twins nodded calmly. "So if we are to die, what difference does it make who has the _nice_ blade?"

"I should like to fall on the battlefield with a Swordmaster's weapon gripped in my cold, dead hand!" declared a Twin.

"As would I," affirmed the other Twin, "very much so! What could be better than _that?_ "

"And you think that _I_ am the mad one?" Thaeus muttered, then dug two fingers into his belt pouch and drew out a silver Taraboner mark. He tossed the weighty coin high into the air, caught it neatly on the descent and slapped it down onto the back of his gauntlet. "Call."

"Heads!" nominated the left-hand Twin, promptly.

The right-hand Twin scowled at his brother, then muttered; "tails, then."

Thaeus took his hand away from the coin, revealing the haughty silvered face of a long-dead Panarch of Tanchico, etched in profile. "The sword is yours for the battle, Aebel," he told the winning Warder.

"I am Blaek."

"Whichever! Now cease this foolish bickering… we have red work to do!"

Blaek eagerly snatched up the Power-wrought blade, then paused, eyeing his frowning sibling. He hesitated a moment, then spun the sword skilfully, extending the hilt toward Aebel. "Take it, brother. It probably _is_ your turn."

Aebel blinked in surprise, then reached out to touch the pommel. "Are you sure, brother?"

"No. But take it anyway."

Aebel nodded solemnly, gripping the hilt and sliding the curved blade deftly into the scabbard at his belt. Blaek retrieved another sword from the leaves, an inferior but still fine weapon, running his thumb critically along the edge, then sheathed it also. Two pairs of dark, dangerous eyes fixed on Thaeus.

"We stand ready," the Twins confirmed.

Thaeus nodded curtly, then turned back to his vantage. The Darkfriends were halfway to the palisade lined with defenders now, extending their uneven lines to encircle the stockade. They evidently meant to attack on all sides at once. It made sense to Thaeus, it was the order he would have given, were he in charge. With this in mind, his attention moved to the burly, shaven-skulled brigand with the large axe and the octopus tattoo writhing across his barrel chest, a colourful bird perched on his broad shoulder. He appeared to be the one giving the commands…

"That one," Thaeus hissed, pointing, "the big Shadowsworn brute with the blue tattoo… do your best to kill him, he is certainly the leader of this mob."

"We will," the Twins assented.

The plan, hastily hatched by Thaeus and the Lady Ysmet, was simple enough, but then, the best plans usually were. Whilst the meeting requested by the smirking Darkfriend witch had been taking place, the camp's three best swordsmen had taken advantage of the distraction to exit through the hidden sally-port at the back of the stockade and sneak into the forest, working their way stealthily around to the west. Hopefully, the Shadowsworn brigands on the ship had not seen them do so... Whilst the enemy were concentrating on their frontal assault, Thaeus and the Twins intended to attack from the rear, doing as much damage as possible and hopefully decapitating their leadership. Literally as well as figuratively, with any luck. Thaeus did not like the look of the big villain with the axe, and believed that his ill-favoured, shaved head would look far better separated from his bull neck.

It was not much of a plan, admittedly, and offered little hope for survival beyond the first moments of surprise and confusion amongst the foe, but it was all they had been able to come up with at short notice. It would have to do.

"What of the Shadowsworn witch?" Aebel enquired softly.

"She who Rashiel named 'Twisty-tongue,'" Blaek added unnecessarily, since there could be no doubt to whom his brother was referring.

"Rashiel Sedai says that she can deal with her… she insisted on doing so, in fact, and forbade anyone else from interfering." Thaeus smiled grimly, recalling his Uncle Leol's stories of the war in Altara… the Troubles… "Ebou Dari women take their vengeance seriously!" He considered a moment, then added; "Hamadi thinks that the red-veiled Aielman can channel too… he could not be entirely sure until he got up close to him, though."

"Do you speak Hamadi's language also, Lord Whitecloak?"

"Did Hamadi tell you this in the strange speech of Shara?"

"Of course not! I can barely speak my _own_ language, let alone that of the Sharans! Hamadi told Raab to tell me…"

" _Raab!_ " the Twins growled, contemptuously.

Thaeus grinned, and rolled his eyes. He, the Twins and Hamadi had all spent part of the previous night cloistered with the Sea Folk renegade, making fruitless plans for the rescue of the Laughing God's four prisoners, whilst Gen snored in the corner of his dank hut. Though they did not even know where the Aes Sedai and the Ayyad woman were being _kept_ … all Aebel and Blaek could tell of Shrina's whereabouts through the Bond was that she was somewhere far to the south. But they were assuming that the captives were being kept together, and had not been separated.

This planning was not all that had taken place… after the Twins turned-in for the night, Hamadi had used Raab as a reluctant translator to convey to Thaeus some of his knowledge concerning _saidin_ and its offensive and defensive uses in battle, about which he seemed to know a great deal. All taught to him by his missing paramour, Dara, apparently… these Ayyad certainly sounded like deadly foes. While no expert, Thaeus hoped that he might now have recourse to more than one option for opposing the Shadowsworn enemy. With this in mind, Thaeus touched the ornate, Heron-marked hilt that projected above his right shoulder… the Family Sword. But it was not the sole weapon in his arsenal. If need be, he yet had the Family Curse.

* * *

" _Forward!_ " bellowed Duadh din Retif Blue Ring, Sailmaster of Clan Waketa, and his people obeyed, breaking into a run, charging the palisade some fifty paces away. With a loud squawk, Syed the parrot sprang from Duadh's broad shoulder and launched into the air, flapping aloft to circle high above, from where a better view of the fighting would present itself. Very wise of the bird, Duadh considered, the sagacious winged creature always departed its customary perch when there was blood-letting to be done. A battle was no place for a parrot…

To either side, the long lines of Storm Children pounded up the beach, bare feet raising clouds of sand, keen weapons brandished aloft. Duadh threw back his head and _howled_ , the bestial war-cry of the Storm Children, heard by the few who lived to tell of it, and his people joined-in, yelling and whooping savagely. Duadh saw the puny sailors up on the parapet flinching at the dread cacophony, though they did not retreat. Well, they were surrounded, there was nowhere for them to go…

At Duadh's flank, his niece Samarla slowed her pace slightly, drawing back her arm to hurl a cruelly-barbed javelin, teeth bared in her dark face, predatory eyes fixed on a prospective victim. Duadh would have thought her a little far from the target for such a throw, had he not seen Samarla accurately spit a distant enemy with her fearsome weapon on numerous occasions. This time, however, events went differently for his niece; before she could cast the javelin, a crossbow bolt struck her square in the chest. Blood erupted from her mouth and she fell back with a choking cry. Duadh scowled murderously; she had been one of his best fighters… he paused to scoop up the fallen weapon, vowing to thrust it into the guts of Samarla's killer and _twist_ it. It would be what she would have wanted…

Further bolts were being fired steadily from the stockade, though at a slow rate, and Duadh saw more of his people fall to the deadly missiles as they rushed up the beach, about a half-dozen in all… many of the quarrels missed their targets, however, they were being fired too high. Duadh grinned ferociously. Had his crew been facing disciplined soldiers, trained archers, the toll would have been higher… but these were mere sailors, what passed for mariners amongst the Shorebound, and they clearly lacked experience with the crossbow. In either case, the end result would be the same. Clan Waketa would fight anyone, anywhere… and what few survivors remained from the encounter would be given to the salt, sacrificed to the Stormfather. It was the way of things, and had been for a very long time.

Duadh could not see either of the Ebou Dari women up on the parapet; he particularly desired to find and take captive the Noblewoman, not merely to ravish her though he would most probably do that too, but because she had something that he wanted and he wished to discover how she had come by it. What this Lady Ysmet was doing with an ancient and valuable Clan Waketa dagger stuck through her belt, Duadh had no idea, but it would be _his_ ere long… as would her life. Eventually.

A sallow sailor atop the palisade raised his crossbow, sighting on Duadh. Without breaking his stride, the Sailmaster of the _Stormchaser_ swept back his powerful arm and threw the javelin forcibly. The sharp steel point went through the thin wood of the hoarding like paper, plunging into the sailor's belly. He screamed and dropped the crossbow, clutching at the haft sunk into his bloody midriff, then sank from view.

"I shall be up there to twist it presently, Shorebound!" Duadh shouted, then laughed wildly. The battle-madness was upon him, the red thirst for blood, and his dark soul sang with joy. By the Stormfather's Beard, _this_ was what he _lived_ for!

The Waketa were but ten paces from the stockade when suddenly, a high wall of flame sprang into existence between them and their goal, encircling the camp. The fighters fell back, cursing, no few of them somewhat singed. That was _real_ fire, and no illusion…

" _Windfinder!_ " Duadh roared, forgetting that she was no such thing in his haste, and then Irmilla was at his side, looking winded from her run up the beach. "Do something about those flames!" Duadh commanded, gesturing impatiently at the fiery barrier that lay between him and his prey.

"I'm already _doing_ it, you great oaf!" Irmilla snapped, staring intently at the blazing barrier.

"You could have shielded us from those cursed crossbow bolts," Duadh grumbled, "I lost some useful people…"

"I needed to preserve my strength for _this_ sort of thing," Irmilla explained impatiently, "now cease distracting me, Duadh, I must _concentrate_ …"

On the other side of the burning wall, the gate in the palisade swung down to the sand. The Aes Sedai stood there alone, her pale eyes narrowed, hands raised. Irmilla smiled cruelly and gestured; a dark ball of fire appeared before her and shot through the flames directly toward her enemy, who promptly crossed her wrists in front of her face. The fireball exploded against an invisible shield that she must have hastily conjured, scorching the timbers of the stockade to either side. The Aes Sedai staggered back, a look of severe strain on her face, before straightening up and composing herself.

Duadh comprehended little of the One Power, but presumably the Crone's Apprentice used this distraction to her advantage, for the flaming barrier abruptly _froze_ , its red hue shifting to blue-grey, becoming a jagged wall of ice around its entire length. "What good is _this?_ " Duadh angrily demanded of Irmilla, "there is yet a wall between we and our foe!"

"Give me that!" Irmilla snarled, snatching Duadh's prized axe from his grasp. He was too surprised by the unexpected nature of this action to stop her! Gripping the heavy weapon inexpertly in both hands, Irmilla swung it hard against the ice barrier, which promptly shattered, making a hole wide enough for a man to fit through. "The ice is _thin_ , you idiot!" Irmilla shouted, passing Duadh back his axe, "your people can break through easily… now go and get on with about the only thing you swabs of the Shadow are any _good_ at – _kill_ them!"

Duadh put a hand over his heart and grinned. "It shall be as you say, Daughter of the Sands," he promised. Irmilla frowned confusedly. Clearly, she did not realise that she had just been insulted…

The Aes Sedai yet stood in the gateway of the stockade, watching wide-eyed. Irmilla noticed and waved at her through the hole in the frozen wall. "Hello again, Rashiel dear!" she called out, "Ice beats Fire! Go and hide in a hole or under a rock, I shall count to twenty and then come find you!" The Ebou Dari witch glared at Irmilla poisonously. Duadh did not particularly blame her since he found the annoying 'prentice irritating also. The Aes Sedai then stepped back, the gate beginning to swing up again.

"Quick, stop it before it closes!" Duadh commanded. To either side, his people were yet engaged in smashing their way through the ice-wall, but two of his swifter crew, a brother and sister named Cinn and Cerra, slipped through the hole Irmilla had made in the barrier with his axe. They ran fleetly forward to obey Duadh's order, whilst he and a dozen of his strongest fighters attacked the wall in earnest, smashing it asunder.

Duadh watched as the Clan Waketa youth and maiden sped to opposite sides of the closing gate, slashing the ropes that held it up with their long knives. The section of palisade began to fall, but then halted and resumed rising, despite the cut cables. Presumably, the Aes Sedai was doing it, or the Sharaman… Duadh turned to Irmilla to demand that she again intervene, but she was now kneeling on the sand, head bowed, clearly overcome by her recent exertions. The insane Aielman was nowhere to be seen… Duadh cursed, turning back to the gate. "Stop them!" he shouted, as he and his crew advanced on the palisade, trampling shattered chunks of ice beneath their thorny feet.

Cinn and Cerra exchanged a mute glance, then placed their knives between their teeth and leapt to grab the top of the closing gate, nimbly swinging themselves up to vault over the edge. They disappeared inside the stockade as the gate slammed shut. Duadh stared, nonplussed. _That_ was not quite what he had in mind… Reaching the palisade he angrily slammed his axe into the logs, wood chips flying. Sailors stood above, hurriedly reloading their crossbows. More Clan Waketa fighters inexorably closed-in on the stockade from all sides, surrounding their enemy.

"Ropes and grapnels!" Duadh roared commandingly, wondering what had become of the two young deck-hands who had so imprudently ventured within the camp… his answer came as the severed head of Cerra landed in the sand beside him, her eyes wide, staring blankly. A moment later, her brother's head thumped down also, though Cinn's eyes were tightly closed. Duadh glared up at the top of the palisade, where the Noblewoman now stood on the parapet, smiling down at him coldly. The strange little man he had seen earlier hovered beside her, faded tattoos marking his lined face, which wore a stern expression; he held a blood-stained leather sack, from which he had presumably emptied the decapitated trophies.

"Begone, Darkfriend pirate, or you shall share the fate of those two!" the Lady Ysmet shouted.

Duadh snarled with rage. He did not particularly care about Cerra and Cinn, they had just been a couple of half-breed orphans, holding little status within the Clan, but they had still been part of his crew and had died at his behest… their deaths were an insult to the Waketa, and must be avenged! "You shall perish slowly for that, Shorebound harlot!" Duadh promised, though was not sure if his threat had been heard over the howling and agonised screams that punctuated the battle.

"Shoot!" commanded the Ebou Dari Noble, and the sailors to either side let loose their bolts. Most were aimed at Duadh, unsurprisingly, but did not strike home; instead, the quarrels slammed to a halt short of their target as they hit an invisible barrier of some kind, then dropped harmlessly to the ground. The sailors gasped, before frantically beginning to turn the cranks on their crossbows. The Noblewoman cursed and beside her, the small fellow stared at something behind Duadh and opened his mouth, revealing a few yellowing teeth that were filed to points. "Ware _Souvraniene!_ " he screamed, then ducked out of sight.

Duadh suspected a familiar presence behind him and turned to look. Sure enough, Mastri stood there, a broad smile twisting his wide mouth, exposing filed, pointed teeth, his disturbing gaze fixed on the palisade. "That old man up there had teeth a little like mine," he commented, then in more decisive tones, bade them to; "stand aside, Sea Folk." Duadh and his crew did as they were bid. Further crossbow bolts were fired at the tall Samma N'Sei from above, but again he halted them in mid-air, and this time, _retaliated._ The sailor directly opposite raised his weapon, sighting on Mastri, who narrowed his eyes and gestured with one hand in response. The unfortunate sailor promptly _exploded_ , erupting instantaneously into a welter of gore, torn skin and shattered bone.

"Take cover!" the Noblewoman shrieked; she and the remaining sailors disappeared from sight. The Waketa began to swing their ropes, iron grappling hooks knotted to the ends, but Mastri shook his head.

"No need," the Samma N'Sei declared, closing one hand into a fist and making a punching motion directed at the gate. This too exploded; Duadh and his closest crew threw themselves to the sand to avoid a swarm of flying splinters… then the Sailmaster looked up, beholding a ragged hole in the palisade where the gate had stood, a breach in the enemy's defences that he and his fighters might profitably exploit.

Duadh bared his teeth savagely. "Come on!" he yelled, " _kill!_ " The Waketa needed no encouragement; they all came from a line of hardened killers that went back to long before the Trolloc Wars, their people had been doing this sort of thing for a great many generations. They surged forward, weapons raised, howling fiercely. But then, the dark-skinned Sharan youth with the tattooed face stepped into the gap in the shattered stockade. He smiled grimly, raising his hands… and it began to rain fire.

* * *

Cirla din Retif Swordfish stood at the large spoked wheel up on the quarterdeck of the _Stormchaser_ , keeping her customary station whilst avidly watching the attack on the enemy camp. Cirla felt disappointment and anger that she was not there herself, taking part in what would undoubtedly be a satisfactory slaughter of the Shorebound weaklings who opposed them, but unfortunately, someone had to remain behind and watch over the ship. In this case, that meant she and a dozen Clan Waketa crew down on the main-deck, taking an equally keen interest in the mayhem ashore.

Abruptly, a high wall of flame sprang into being, encircling the stockade. Cirla flinched, jerking her dark gaze away from the eyepiece of the telescope she had been training on the shore, blinking the spots out of her vision. It was an Aes Sedai's doing, doubtless. The One Power had always made Cirla nervous, her people also… the few channeling Windfinders of their Clan were assiduously avoided and she was glad that there was not one aboard. Her hated sister especially… it was bad enough that they sailed with the ill-omened Aiel Madman and the sluttish 'prentice of She Who Calls the Gales, but Cirla knew that to have Melda din Retif Barracuda as her shipmate would be truly nightmarish. When they were both children, Melda had tormented her younger sister relentlessly; stealing her toy knives, poisoning her pet dog-shark and oft threatening to give little Cirla to the salt. When the vile siren began to channel and became a Windfinder, her ill behaviour had only worsened.

Cirla raised the spyglass to her other eye, to better see what was being done about the fiery barrier by their own channelers... she was surprised to note that in the intervening moments, the flames had been turned to ice. So _that_ was what had been done… but it made little sense to her. To exchange one wall for another? Why-?

"That is a fine tattoo upon your back, Friend to the Darkness," complimented an oddly accented, husky voice from right behind Cirla, "a swordfish, is it not?"

* * *

Rashiel Tamor rose unsteadily, a pair of tattooed hands helping her to her feet. "Thank you, Raab," she murmured, blinking rapidly, clearing her distorted vision… that wall of flame had really taken its toll on her, and it had all been for naught. She strongly expected that Irmilla – foul, conniving bitch that she was – had obtained an _angreal_ from her loathsome, Shadowsworn Mistress. Transforming the fiery barrier to ice was no mean feat and Irmilla had never been _that_ strong in the Power.

"The Storm Children will be over the palisade soon, and then we will certainly be slain," Raab observed mournfully, "well, the _lucky_ ones, at least…"

Rashiel eyed the doleful Sea Folk renegade with confusion. "Still here, Raab? I thought you said that you were going to kill yourself?" she reminded him.

Raab shrugged, and touched the carven ivory hilt of the short-sword tucked through his sash. "I am not very skilled with a blade," he admitted, "but have decided to at least _try_ and take some of those Light-cursed children-of-the-sands with me."

Rashiel approvingly ruffled Raab's curly hair, causing him to flinch. "Good for you, _Atha'an Miere!_ That's the spirit!" Her pale eyes swept along the palisade, taking account of the paucity of men lining its length. With a dozen of the crew away on the rescue mission to the Isle of the Spire – Dagnon too, she truly regretted sending him along with the others and had not been able to sense his whereabouts through the Bond as yet – there really were not enough sailors left to adequately defend the camp. They were spread far too thin. With a gurgling cry, a sailor dropped his crossbow and tumbled from the parapet, an arrow lodged in his throat. Rashiel frowned. And getting thinner all the time.

Rashiel tried to recall the last time that she had been in such danger. The fight with those _other_ pirates on their way to this insane land? But no, the savages who had attacked the _Queen Mab_ near an uncharted archipelago to the north had not been as deadly as the Storm Children, though fearsome enough… short, pale folk, their bodies covered with swirling blue paint patterns, armed with flint-tipped spears and tridents. They had swarmed around the ship in long war-canoes, a little like those used by the Hawx, and had done much violence in a short space of time… but when Rashiel began to hurl fireballs into their midst, the savage brigands had fled in terror. _They_ had not enjoyed the advantage of having their _own_ channeler, to dispel her weaves…

Also, in addition to the despised Irmilla, there was that strange Aiel Darkfriend _Souvraniene_ to deal with. Hopefully, Hamadi could do so. If not, they were probably all as good as dead… Rashiel scowled furiously. She had survived the worst that the Black Ajah could do to her, and she would kiss a Myrddraal before she allowed a pack of Shadow-loving sea-scum to end her life! No, Rashiel considered, the last time that she had been in _this_ much peril, this close to dying, had definitely been on that dreadful day in Tar Valon…

" _That is lovely, Soorla. What is it?"_

" _A tree, Rashiel Sedai."_

" _I can_ see _that it is a tree, I meant what kind?"_

" _It is a yew, of course." The Ogier maiden turned her large head, long tresses of chestnut hair sweeping down her back, raising silky eyebrows. "Can you not tell? Oh dear, perhaps it is not very good…"_

 _Rashiel tilted her head to one side, squinting at the finished work of art that rested upon the easel, examining the skilful brush-strokes that had taken paint and canvas, and had brought forth a tree that looked as though you could reach out and touch it. "Um… no, don't be silly Soorla, it is every bit as excellent as everything else you paint and draw, it is just that we don't have… what was it again?"_

" _A yew tree."_

" _Yes, that, we don't have them down in Altara… I think…"_

" _But of course you do, Rashiel Sedai! They grow everywhere in the Westlands, and even beyond…" Soorla chuckled softly, rising from her three-legged stool and towering over the young Aes Sedai. "Humans! You know little of the arboreal realm, it would seem…"_

" _I know lots about fish!" Rashiel pointed-out._

" _That is hardly the same thing, Aes Sedai. One cannot rest beneath the shade of a fish on a hot summer's day."_

" _I suppose not…"_

 _Soorla's huge eyes widened with enthusiasm, her long ears lifting, and Rashiel, noting the sure signs of a dissertation on trees being imminent, felt her heart sink a little. "A tree is not merely a plant… why, it is an entire world unto itself! An unknowable entity! And this living, breathing Grove, tended by the Aes Sedai of the White Tower, lovingly created many generations gone by my brethren who built this fine City, it is the quintessence, the veritable epitome of-"_

"Rashiel! _"_

 _Both Aes Sedai and Ogier artist turned to see Dagnon Gaidin running towards them, weaving and veering around the tall trunks of the Tar Valon Grove. He looked unaccustomedly flustered and was clad in drab, farmer's woollens, a sack on his back. Strangest of all, he did not appear to have his Heron-mark blade sheathed at his belt. Rashiel did not think that she had ever seen Dagnon without his Family Sword. Except in bed, of course…_

" _Dagnon!" Rashiel exclaimed, "you have ignobly interrupted dearest Soorla's exposition! How rude!" Though secretly, she was rather glad that her Warder and lover had done so…once Soorla got onto the subject of her flaming trees, she could drone on for an entire afternoon!_

 _Dagnon skidded to a halt beside the easel, which he nearly knocked over in his haste, and bowed gracefully to Soorla. "My abject apologies, honoured Builder… I mean, Painter… but-"_

" _You could at least pause to admire her latest masterpiece!" Rashiel added tartly._

 _Dagnon gave Rashiel one of his impatient stares, but swiftly scanned the oil-painting with his cold, blue-eyed gaze, even so. "Very nice," he commented, unconvincingly. Rashiel repressed a smile. Her beloved Dagnon was probably even less interested in trees than she! The closest he had ever come to the 'arboreal realm' was back in Murandy, helping-out at the local saw-mill! Best not to tell Soorla that, though…_

 _Naturally, Soorla did not notice the falseness of Dagnon's admiration but, being an Ogier, took the compliment at face value. "My thanks, good Brother of Battles." She raised a long finger to her lips, thoughtfully. "When the paint has dried, do you think I might perhaps present this art to the Amyrlin Seat, to thank the Mother for hosting me at the Tower and allowing me access to her beautiful Grove?" She blushed, ears twitching. "Or would that be too forward?"_

 _Rashiel rather doubted that Siuan Sanche was any more interested in trees than she was, though the Amyrlin certainly knew even more of fishes… the bloody woman never stopped mentioning the burning things! Rashiel opened her mouth to make some sort of polite yet nugatory reply, but this never came._

" _You will have to give the tree painting to the_ new _Amyrlin," Dagnon muttered darkly, "but I shouldn't bother if I were you, Mistress Soorla… I hear that she does not care for landscapes, is only really interested in silly ivory carvings of animals!"_

 _Rashiel gaped at her Warder. "The…_ new _Amyrlin? Whatever do you mean, Dagnon?"_

 _Dagnon Gaidin frowned grimly. "There has taken place this dark day a coup in the Tower, the Mother has been deposed… how could you not_ know _, Rashiel?" Rashiel glared at Dagnon, about to protest, but he held up his hand authoritatively, hissing; "shush!_ Listen _…" This brusqueness was so unlike Dagnon's habitual mannerly behaviour that Rashiel, in her surprise, obediently fell silent!_

 _Aes Sedai, Warder and Ogier all strained their ears in the ensuing quietude. One of those pairs of ears was tufted with fine, silky hairs, and heard more keenly than the less decorative ears of the humans… Soorla's wide mouth fell open in shock and dismay as she detected something. Then, Rashiel heard it too… in the distance, the clashing of steel on steel, punctuated by harsh screams and shouts. Sniffing, she thought that she could detect the odour of burning._

" _What..?" Rashiel muttered._

 _Dagnon's voice was pitched low, held urgency; "Elaida has supplanted the Amyrlin and stolen the Seat for herself! She is backed by a narrow consensus in the Hall of Sitters and holds the support of various co-conspirators, numbering many of the more ambitious and less ethical Sisters of the White Tower!"_

" _Elaida?" Rashiel gasped, shocked, "Elaida do Avriny a'-"_

" _Yes,_ her! _" Dagnon shook his head in disgust. "Truly, it shames me that one of my Nation, of the noble Stornlands no less, daughter of a House almost as old as mine own, should be capable of such black treachery!"_

" _Oh, Elaida is capable of just about anything…" Rashiel murmured absently, her mind working furiously._

" _What of the Watcher of the Seals, good Gaidin?" Soorla asked quietly, her voice a low drone, like the buzzing of a large honey-bee, "what has become of the true Amyrlin?"_

 _Dagnon shrugged. "A good question, honoured Alantin ti Avende. Some say Siuan Sanche is dead, others that she languishes in the deep cells below the Tower. There is even a rumour that she has escaped the Island, and intends to lead a revolt against the usurpers…" Dagnon hesitated, eyeing Rashiel uncertainly, then reluctantly added; "…but all whom I have spoken with; Warders and Guardsmen mostly, Old Quilly and some of his stableboys also, agree on one thing… the deposed Amyrlin has almost certainly been_ stilled. _"_

" _Oh, how awful!" Soorla cried._

 _Rashiel scowled, resisting the urge to shudder with horror. Better that Elaida's cabal had just killed her… stilling was an almost certain death-sentence in any case. Rashiel had never particularly_ liked _Siuan Sanche, and was far from alone in this, but she had respected her even so… her moral strength and iron will had been a reassuring factor in the stability of the White Tower. Rashiel felt no such sentiment for Elaida, quite the opposite… even by the base standards of the Red Ajah, the woman was repugnant! Conceited and deeply stupid, also. That the Tower should have turned upon itself, that Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan was now Amyrlin Seat at such a time… the Dragon had been reborn, for the Light's sake! The Last Battle was coming!_ Elaida _leading the Aes Sedai in these dark and dangerous days? It would be a bloody disaster!_

" _How is it that you did not know of these events, Rashiel?" Dagnon reiterated, "why, you must be the very last person in Tar Valon to be unaware that-"_

" _Shut your pie-hole, moustache-face!" Rashiel rudely interrupted, annoyed, before shouting; "you already flaming-well asked me that!" She nodded at a picnic basket standing nearby. "I have been in the middle of the Grove with Soorla all morning, if you must know. It was a nice enough day, so we thought that we would eat outside, after she had finished her painting… where have_ you _been, anyway? You were still asleep when I left, slugabed! And why in the Wheel are you wearing those old clothes? You look like a travelling manure-salesman!"_

 _Dagnon frowned and drew himself up nobly, to indicate that his dignity had been wounded, then dumped the sack he carried out onto the grass; it contained more drab woollens, a skirt, blouse and shawl. "I have been gathering information, Rashiel," he explained resentfully, though a little smugly, "and doing my best to avoid the fighting until I could find you, by disguising myself as-"_

" _A travelling manure-"_

"No! _As something_ other _than a Gaidin of the Tower…"_

" _You were already doing_ that _," Rashiel reminded him, "since nobody is supposed to know about you being my Warder and suchlike…"_

" _I know!" Soorla stated importantly._

" _Yes, dearest Soorla, but I swore you to secrecy, did I not? Ogier's Oath! You're a Treesister, so you're eminently_ trustworthy! _"_

" _I thank you, Aes Sedai," Soorla mumbled bashfully._

 _Rashiel eyed the rough garments lying on the grass with confusion. "Who are those for? They probably won't fit Soorla…"_

" _They are for_ you _of course!" Dagnon growled impatiently, "get changed, Rashiel!"_

" _Shan't! Hold!_ Fighting? _"_

" _What in the blue blazes do you think that_ noise _was, Rashiel?" Dagnon demanded, exasperated, "the kitchen staff throwing pots and pans at each other?!"_

" _There is no need to be sarcastic…" Rashiel muttered, sulkily._

 _Dagnon did not hear, enlarging on his theme; "it is Warder against Warder out there, Guardsman against Guardsman… that young Andoran Princeling who came here to train with the Gaidin… I misremember his name…"_

" _The beautiful boy, Galad?" Rashiel enthused._

"Not _that prancing fop! The_ other _one, his brother!"_

" _He's_ not _a fop and he doesn't prance… well, not that much… you are just jealous of his good looks, Dagnon!"_

" _I am not! He lacks a moustache! What kind of fellow shaves his top lip like that? Why, tis unmanly and slightly effeminate!"_

" _Yes, well… I assume you mean Prince Gawyn? What of him?"_

" _What indeed?" Dagnon scowled. "This Prince of the Sword, Gawyn, he led the younglings against the Senior Gaidin when they tried to free Siuan Sedai, acting in support of Elaida, the bloody fool!"_

" _Surely not?!" Rashiel gasped._

" _Tis the very truth! It is bruited about that Gawyn slew Hammar Gaidin!"_

" _Oh no! Poor Hammar!"_

"And _Coulin Gaidin, also!"_

" _Coulin too? The wretch! Andorans are all sneaks! Except for dear old Thom Merrilin, of course… and the gorgeous Prince Galad, naturally."_

" _Huh. My_ Warhorse _is more gorgeous than he." Dagnon lowered his voice portentously; "and which is worse; Sisters of the Tower are reportedly slaying their fellow Aes Sedai, using the One Power to do violence!"_

"Never! _I refuse to believe it!"_

" _Believe it even so!_ That _is why you must disguise yourself as well, the Reds and the other conspirators know you for a probable loyalist, opposed to their schemes… there may even be Black Ajah amongst them. If they catch you, Rashiel, then you shall never leave the White Tower alive!"_

 _Rashiel blinked, then regarded the ill-fashioned woollens without enthusiasm. She sighed, reached a decision and slipped out of her fine maroon gown after Dagnon had helped her with the buttons. Clad only in crimson silk stockings and shift, she began to get changed. "What of the_ others _loyal to the old Amyrlin?" Rashiel's muffled voice enquired as she pulled the rough and itchy blouse down over her head._

" _There are no few of them, but they have mostly fled the Island to regroup and gather their strength elsewhere… it seems that the entirety of the Blue Ajah has decamped, many Greens also, a smattering of reactionaries from the other Ajahs… they have taken their Warders with them, naturally, some servants also, and-"_

"Alright _, enough information!" Rashiel snapped, "my head is spinning…" She pecked Dagnon affectionately on the cheek to take the sting from her words, since she_ had _asked him for further details, after all. "Hush, handsome! Your Aes Sedai needs to_ think _…"_

 _Whilst they had been engaged with the dire affairs of the day, Soorla had occupied herself with packing her painting and some charcoal sketches into a leathern portfolio and dismantling her collapsible easel. The tall Ogier maiden now stood waiting patiently, these items under one arm, her sturdy stool held in the other hand._

 _Rashiel came to a weightier decision than that reached concerning the wearing of ugly clothing. "Obviously, we shall have to flee Tar Valon," she announced, "but where to go? Cairhein, perhaps?"_

" _We should leave passing soon, true enough," Dagnon agreed, before protesting; "but Cairhein is full of rampaging Aielmen!_ And _the most recent incarnation of the Lord of the Morning! Tis right dangerous… why there?"_

" _I was just entertaining the possibility, it isn't exactly a decision… back in Saldaea, before she rode off into the night on her big, black horse, Cadsuane told me that she intended to gather a group of useful Aes Sedai for a private endeavour. Something to do with the Dragon Reborn, apparently? The old goat offered me a place in their number, Ellyth too if she turned up in time… I wonder where Lady Whitecloak is, anyway? She should have returned from her latest foolish quest by now…"_

" _Cairhein?" Dagnon reminded Rashiel, pointedly._

" _Oh yes… well, Cadsuane said that I should meet her and the others there…"_

" _Then we shall go to Cairhein," Dagnon stated, clearly relieved that they had arrived at a choice concerning their destination. He did not care for uncertainty…_

" _No we flaming_ shan't _go to Cairhein! I would rather bed a particularly ill-favoured Trolloc than spend another moment in the vile company of Cadsuane bloody Melaidhrin! She can keep her burning schemes to herself!"_

" _Then where-?" Dagnon began to ask, but Soorla spoke up at this point, her rumbling tones claiming their attention._

" _Excuse me Aes Sedai, Gaidin, but I think perhaps it might be time for me to go now… to travel back to Stedding Saishen, that is. This exchange of power within the White Tower seems very hasty and intemperate…" Soorla's ears drooped sadly, "…not to mention_ violent _… most sad, a great shame… but I have remained longer than I intended and it is certainly high time that I left Tar Valon." She sighed, a gusty sound reminiscent of a breeze stirring dead leaves. "I am sure that the Elders of my stedding shall wish to be informed of these dire happenings amongst the Aes Sedai…"_

" _I'm sure they shall," Rashiel agreed, then spoke seriously; "but please don't return to your stedding through the Ways, Soorla, I know we did not actually_ see _anything in there when we journeyed to Tar Valon along those dark paths, but I had this horrid feeling that I was being_ watched _by some inimical entity for the entire time…"_

" _As did I," Dagnon agreed, but neither female heard him, so he returned to scanning the trees around them in case Elaida's minions decided to search the Ogier Grove for loyalists._

" _There is something evil within the Ways, I am sure of it!" Rashiel further warned._

 _Soorla nodded gravely. "I concur with your opinion, Rashiel," she commented, "the very moment I stepped through the Waygate I felt the presence of something untoward and dangerous, and instantly regretted my decision to lead you both to Tar Valon… I might have turned back, then and there, but you humans set such store in bravery that I did not wish you to think me craven…"_

" _Oh, I would never think_ that _, Soorla… you defied the wishes of your mother in coming here to paint your trees, something that I would never have risked!"_

 _Soorla's broad mouth spread even wider in a warm smile. "Mother is yet upset with me about that, and shall probably remain so for at least another century! But do not fear, I shall_ ride _back to Stedding Saishen upon the fine horse that the Keeper of Chronicles was good enough to gift me with… a most pleasant and generous woman…" Soorla glanced at Dagnon, "…I do hope that she..?" She could not bring herself to actually say it._

 _Dagnon shook his head. "Leanne Sedai yet lives, though the word is that she was stilled also." Rashiel frowned. Unlike Siuan Sanche, she actually_ liked _Leanne Sharif… Elaida and her cronies would pay for their crimes… probably Black Ajah traitors, the entire sorry lot of them!_

 _Soorla sighed regretfully. "Such terrible times that we live in," she commented, then brightened; "in any case, I shall shun the foreboding Ways and travel home upon my noble steed, though slower than ever my feet could carry me! I have developed a decided taste for horse-riding. We Ogier should do it more often."_

" _It is not really a noble steed, it is actually a rather old cart-horse," Dagnon pointed-out in the interests of veracity, but again, he went unheard._

 _Soorla inclined her head courteously to Rashiel. "Under your fine tutelage, Rashiel Sedai, I believe that I have become an accomplished horsewoman… or Caba Alantin ti Avende might be more appropriate, perhaps..?"_

 _Rashiel could not quite repress a smile this time, despite the dread events of the day, for the image of Soorla atop her plodding beast of burden, legs swinging and body swaying inexpertly back and forth, was a humorous one. Rashiel smiled up at Soorla, patting her arm. "Come, we will go with you as far as the Tower stables, but then we must say our goodbyes, my friend." She turned to Dagnon, resuming her glare. "Where are your fabled manners, Gaidin? Carry Soorla's easel and stool! Be quick about it lest I set your large and bristly moustache aflame!" Dagnon sighed, and obeyed, taking these heavy items from Soorla._

 _A time later, Rashiel and Dagnon stole along a lengthy street from archway to archway, slender spires and minarets looming to either side above architecture that looked as though it had been as much grown as constructed. Ogier work, and not even the finest that Tar Valon had to display. The thoroughfare was strangely deserted for this time of day, the citizenry of the Island City were mostly secreting themselves indoors until the turmoil was ended, and a foreboding silence reigned._

 _Up ahead, the corpse of a thickset man was slumped face down in a pool of blood. He wore shabby workman's garb, but Dagnon flipped his coat aside with a boot to reveal that he was armoured in plate and mail beneath. A fallen sword lay nearby._

" _Another one," Dagnon commented, "a mercenary disguised as a mason… I think me that Elaida and her friends have been smuggling their clandestine armsmen into Tar Valon for weeks."_

 _Rashiel nodded bleakly. "Siuan Sanche was too focused on faraway events; the Dragon, the Aiel, those invaders out to the west who claim descent from the High King's lost legions…" she shook her head chidingly, "…she never noticed what was going on under her nose until it was too late."_

 _They moved on, heading for North-harbour, about which Rashiel knew several lewd jokes, which she liked to cause her lover blushes with… Dagnon was such a prude! She was in no mood for jests at the moment, however, not after what she had recently seen in the Tower grounds, images upon which she did not like to dwell, mostly involving the dead bodies of people she had known._

 _The White Tower had been broken, not from without but from within… something that five great sieges by Shadowspawn and Darkfriend armies during the Trolloc Wars had failed to accomplish, that the Hawkwing himself had not been able to bring about with all the might of his considerable forces… no, the Aes Sedai had done it to themselves. And with Tarmon Gai'don coming, with the Dragon's rebirth, the Tower had been split asunder at the worst possible time! It had to be a plot of the Shadow behind this terrible schism, it_ must _be._

" _Hsst!" hissed Dagnon, "there is someone coming…"_

 _Rashiel eyed her Warder with affectionate amusement. "Dagnon dear, did you actually just_ say _'hsst?'" she whispered, "why, I didn't know people actually_ did _that!"_

" _Hush!" hushed Dagnon commandingly, and unceremoniously grabbed Rashiel's arm, yanking her into a darkened archway, whilst reaching beneath his dusty wool coat for the long dagger he had concealed there. His Family Sword he had left at their destination, so as not to attract notice. Men dressed as farmers did not usually carry a Blademaster's weapon. Though a certain youthful shepherd from the Two Rivers had done so, but neither Rashiel nor Dagnon were aware of this._

 _From around the nearest corner, slow, shuffling footsteps were gradually approaching. Dagnon watched warily from their shadowy place of concealment, Rashiel less so, rubbing her bruised bicep and glaring at the muscle-bound oaf who she had Bonded as her Gaidin, going against both convention and reason… but she opened herself to saidar, just in case. This proved an unnecessary precaution…_

 _A big man came stumbling into sight, moving with the hesitant pace of one who is more than merely exhausted. He paused a moment to rest, leaning upon one of the pillars that supported the archway beneath which Rashiel and Dagnon lurked, breathing deeply, his mournful face dripping with sweat. He wore a well-tailored dark coat and matching britches tucked into fine calf-boots, but something about his dejected manner made this expensive garb seem little better than the drab woollens worn by the Aes Sedai and her Warder._

 _Abruptly, the stranger turned his head, long, black curls brushing wide shoulders, and stared directly at Rashiel with eyes that held only abject despair. She flinched, feeling that she recognised the unfortunate fellow, but was unsure from where. Dagnon took a swift step forward, brandishing his knife, but the tall man barely reacted to the threat, giving the impression that he would be content to be stabbed. Grateful, even. Rashiel examined him curiously; he might have been handsome had his features not registered such profound depression… as it was, he looked drained, old before his time._

 _The tall man spoke wearily in cultured accents, his speech containing the cadence of Ghealdan; "I mean you no harm, Mistress… I fear that I am lost, this city is larger far than Jehannah." He turned to Dagnon; "tell me, which way is the bridge?"_

 _Dagnon scowled suspiciously, but lowered the long dagger. "Which bridge, fellow? There are_ six _."_

"Any _bridge! I mind not which one. In truth, a way off this cursed island is all that I seek!" The stranger had become almost animated at this assertion but now lapsed back into misery._

" _You and us both!" Rashiel quipped, then indicated the way the man had come. He seemed to take note of the golden serpent-ring on her pointing finger and his eyes widened for a moment in what could only be fear, before resuming their sad stare. "You are going the wrong way, Master Cheerful! Back down there, turn right and walk for about seven blocks. The Luagde Bridge is up ahead, beside a large palace that looks a bit like a turtle. You can't miss it!"_

" _The bridge will probably be guarded, though," Dagnon warned._

 _The lost traveller shrugged his broad shoulders unconcernedly. "I care not," he muttered, "anything is better than remaining trapped in my gilded cage, awaiting the blessing of death…" With this enigmatic statement, he turned and shuffled away, feet dragging on the paving stones._

" _You're welcome!" Rashiel called after him, sarcastically. She received no reply, the man disappeared from sight around the corner and was gone from their lives. "What a depressing person!" Rashiel commented, but Dagnon made no answer. She glanced at him. Her Warder was staring in the direction that the man had taken, his brow furrowed, lips pursed. "What is it?" Rashiel enquired._

" _That mordant Ghealdani fellow with the death-wish…I am not sure, but I imagine that I knew him from somewhere? I think perhaps that he might have been..?" Dagnon trailed-off, attempting recollection, but then shook his head. "Ah, it is nothing."_

" _He probably just lost all his coin dicing, like Raab regularly does! It matters not who some bleak wanderer is, Dagnon… we have larger concerns! Come along!"_

 _A further time later, and without additional incident, Rashiel and Dagnon came to their destination; Jabal Gaidin's rented boathouse which bordered on the great circular dock of North-harbour. So as not to arouse suspicion, Rashiel had mostly used her rooms within the Red Ajah quarters of the White Tower, but this draughty shed was where Dagnon was accustomed to staying. He had lived in worse places in the course of his hard life, had told Rashiel that the ancient manor-house of his family had half fallen down for want of unaffordable repair and was a good deal colder and grimmer than the boathouse. Of course, Rashiel often met her lover at his unfashionable North-harbour residence for pleasant afternoon trysts, and sometimes stayed the night, but not too often. One of the many things she detested about the women of her Ajah was their propensity for spying upon one another…_

 _The first thing Dagnon did on unlocking the door of the boathouse was to ensure that no-one was waiting within to ambush them… no-one was. He then went straight to the long, sleek hull of Jabal's beloved yacht, the Rivershark, and retrieved his prized Heron-mark blade from where it lay hid in the locker beneath the wheel, where the boat's owner was accustomed to concealing his secret store of illicit wine._

 _Rashiel sniffed disparagingly, finding Dagnon's priorities objectionable… his first act should have been to see to her comfort, not to ensure the safety of some silly bird-emblazoned blade! Though to be fair, the Family Sword was about all that the impoverished young Lord had to his name. It was the only thing of worth that his House had sworn never to sell, no matter how dire their circumstances. Of course, Dagnon also had his honour, that made two things… and as for the third…_

" _You have me too, you know!" Rashiel reminded her consort loudly as she locked the door behind her, shutting out the deserted and silent avenue._

 _Dagnon glanced up confusedly from his Power-wrought sword, which he had been stroking lovingly in a slightly disturbing way. "Huh?"_

" _Never mind!" Rashiel sniffed again, then ascended the rickety ladder to the cramped loft above which contained the boathouse's rudimentary living quarters, and sat down on the large and sagging bed, removing her boots with relief. They were new, and pinched her toes. There was a more comfortable pair that she had left here, but where? Rashiel scanned the piles of clothing that were lying on the floor and heaped upon the bed fruitlessly, wondering if her old boots were in one of the chests that cluttered the small loft. "Dagnon!" Rashiel called. The ladder creaked and after a moment, her lover's handsome face appeared in the hatchway, a politely enquiring look on his manly and moustachioed features… though they were a little hard to see, since the skylight above was very dirty and resisted the sun's rays. "This place is a_ mess _, even more so than usual… do you know where my boots are? The ones I left here the last time I stayed the night?"_

" _Beneath the bed, I do believe."_

 _Rashiel reached under the bed-frame, encountering what felt like a leather boot… and something else, that moved when she touched it, something with a hard shell… the something promptly nipped her questing fingers! "Oww!" Rashiel cried, sucking the minor wound, then slipped off the bed to kneel on the floorboards, reaching underneath with both hands this time. In due course, she brought out from the place of hiding a small tortoise, an exotic Sharan crab-lizard as she termed it, which waved its stumpy legs about fruitlessly as she held the creature up to glare into its beady, myopic eyes. "Bad boy, Pelateos!" Rashiel chided, "you mustn't bite mummy's finger!"_

 _Rashiel glanced at Dagnon as the rest of his impressive frame appeared from below to stand beside her. "Why did you let Pelateos out of his box?" she demanded, "you_ know _he likes to surprise me from beneath the bed!"_

" _Something which you like_ me _to do also, Rashiel!" Dagnon jested, but then looked somewhat… cautious. "In truth, I did not release the tortoise-creature from its box," he mumbled, avoiding Rashiel's accusatory stare, gazing upwards and musing; "I really must clean that skylight… tis filthy…"_

" _Don't try to change the subject! And anyway, you've been promising to clean that bloody skylight for months and we both know you won't get around to it! Now, if_ you _didn't let him out of his box, who did?"_

 _Dagnon answered reluctantly; "Raab did…"_

"Raab? _When was that little reprobate here?"_

" _Last night. He was thrown out of his lodgings for owing too much rent, and for other offences also. Believe me, you do not want to know what they are. He said he had nowhere else to go. And…" Dagnon hesitated._

"And? _"_

" _I regret to inform you, Rashiel, that Raab is still here."_

" _He is? Where?"_

" _Behind you."_

 _Rashiel lowered the tortoise and whirled around, in time to see Raab crawling out from beneath the pile of clothing on the bed, gazing blearily up at them. Rashiel scowled ferociously. "Raab! What are you doing in that bed?"_

" _Slumbering," Raab mumbled, still-half asleep, "or at least I was until you woke me…"_

 _Rashiel turned to Dagnon angrily. "You let that Sea Folk swindler sleep in_ our _bed?!" she yelled._

 _Raab winced, clutching at his head. "I beg you," he moaned, "not so loud… I am not feeling well… could you please lower your voice a little?"_

" _Not feeling well?" Rashiel shouted, "hah! You are hung-over, you mean! As usual!" Raab groaned, slowly trying to burrow back into the bed. "And why did you let Pelateos out of his box? He likes it in there!"_

" _If I was stuck in a box, I might not like it," Raab muttered, clutching his skull with tattooed hands and trembling._

" _You are clearly not a tortoise, Raab!" Rashiel loudly pointed-out, adding even more loudly; "but it is an excellent idea, even so… Dagnon, go and get a big box… a Raab-sized one! We shall put his sage theory to the test!"_

 _Raab shuddered, then rolled onto the floor with a loud thump, where he lay still, flat on his back, gasping like a landed fish._

" _I shall stuff you in a box and see what happens!" Rashiel cried triumphantly._

 _Dagnon sighed. "I allowed Raab use of the bed out of pity for his wretched condition," he explained, self-consciously adding; "and also because he beat me at dice."_

"Cheated _you at dice, more like…_ really _, Dagnon!"_

" _Windfinder…" Raab bleated from his supine position on the floor._

" _Don't call me that!"_

" _Aes Sedai, then…_

"What? _" Rashiel screamed._

 _Raab writhed about a little, making choking sounds, then managed to say; "while you were out… a letter arrived for you…"_

" _Another letter? Like the one from Shrina that you totally failed to give to Renn?" Rashiel blushed slightly, glad that Raab could not see, since his eyes were tightly closed. She recalled that she too had a letter, also for Renn though from Ellyth this time, that she had equally not managed to deliver… but that was different! She was a responsible person, Raab was not! And only the Creator knew where either of the two young Aes Sedai correspondents were, Shrina as well, for that matter… off hunting her silly Horn, doubtless. Though given the current situation in Tar Valon, the three of them were better off a long distance away from the White Tower… on the other side of the world, even! But that was absurd, of course they were not_ that _far away. Then again, she and Dagnon would do well to put several hundred leagues between themselves and the regime of the new Amyrlin also… but where to go? Was anywhere safe anymore?_

" _Give me the letter, Raab," Rashiel commanded stridently, "present me with my post this instant!"_

" _It is… ahh, my brain is aflame… on the dresser…" Raab whimpered._

 _Rashiel turned to Dagnon. "Perhaps you had better go and get Raab a drink of water," she suggested, feeling a little sorry for the Atha'an Miere outcast, despite herself. She had endured the travails of a morning-head herself, on a few occasions, and this ill experience could not help but engender sympathy in her breast, even for a sneaking little rodent like Raab! Dagnon scowled at the thought of playing the servant, but obediently disappeared below to fetch the water._

 _A warped dresser with peeling varnish stood in the corner, Rashiel stalked over to it, setting Pelateos the tortoise down in front of the cracked mirror, that he might admire himself. She then snatched up the folded parchment with her name and the boathouse's address writ upon it, noting that the missive was sealed with green wax imprinted with a pair of stalking leopards; the Royal Seal of Altara..._

" _The message is from darling Ysmet!" Rashiel called excitedly down to Dagnon. No answer. She raised her voice even more, shouting; "Dagnon? Can you_ hear _me?"_

" _Ahhh… my pounding skull…" Raab whined from his place on the floor._

" _Shut-up Raab, you dissipated halfwit! Stick a pillow over your head or something! And if you vomit then you're clearing it up this time!"_

 _Rashiel glanced at the return address on the back of the parchment. An Inn in the Perfumed Quarter of Illian called 'Easing the Badger.' What a strange name! Illianers were funny! Everyone in Ebou Dar thought so… But the last she heard, Ysmet had been inured in some isolated fishing village on the Shadow Coast, building her precious ship and cohabiting with her conceited Gleeman… Rashiel had met Roth Blucha briefly, a few years back when he visited Shrina at the Tower and had found him extremely annoying, even when compared with all the other irritating Gleemen! What in the Wheel did Ysmet see in him? "Love can be a strange thing," Rashiel murmured thoughtfully._

" _It certainly can," Raab agreed, absently. He was clearly still rather drunk._

 _Rashiel scowled. "I wasn't talking to you!" Stuffing the letter into her ample cleavage, Rashiel descended the ladder to read the message from Ysmet in privacy. The contents, which she immediately shared with Dagnon, were interesting. In addition to the usual gossip concerning their mutual acquaintances, the missive contained an offer, and also, which was more to the point, an opportunity. "Raab!"_

 _After a long pause, a feeble voice responded; "yes, Wind- Aes Sedai?"_

" _How would you like to get away from it all for a while?" Rashiel called up to the loft, "your patron, the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, requests your presence, mine and Dagnon's also… she proposes a long sea voyage!"_

 _Presently, Raab's sallow, rat-like visage appeared in the hatchway above. Rashiel smiled up at him, Dagnon did not. He frowned. He was an excellent frowner._

" _Do I have a choice?" Raab wondered fatalistically, as though already knowing the answer._

" _Not remotely!" Rashiel replied cheerfully._

" _Get down here and help me launch the Rivershark," Dagnon commanded._

" _What about my drink of water, Gaidin?" Raab reminded him pathetically._

 _Dagnon glowered. "I am not your maidservant, Sea Folk dice-cheat! The water is yours to fetch from the cistern if you wish some, tis a bit stale and shall likely not have a pleasant savour, whereas my_ fist _will taste much_ worse _if you continue to aggravate me!"_

" _Alright, alright…" Raab's dark eyes moved to Rashiel hopefully. "Any chance of some Healing? This must be the very worst hangover I have ever had…"_

" _Since the last one," Rashiel muttered snidely, then shouted; "stop peering at me like that and come down from there, it is starting to look as though our loft is infested with some sort of strange, aquatic vermin!" She relented a little. "I'll Heal your sick head if you agree to accompany us."_

 _At this offer, Raab began to reluctantly descend the ladder. In his sorry state, he managed to miss the last few rungs and fell awkwardly to the floorboards beneath with a loud crash. Rashiel and Dagnon watched disapprovingly as Raab slowly scrambled to his bare feet and stood before them, swaying slightly as though he were already back aboard a ship, reunited with his watery element._

" _Alright, I'll come," Raab muttered grudgingly, adding a query in a tone that illustrated that he really did not care what the answer was; "where are we going?"_

" _Down the Erinin to Tear, first," Rashiel told Raab, filling herself with saidar and preparing the rudimentary Healing weaves that were the best her meagre ability for this skill could manage. Raab had not been Healed by her before and she neglected to inform him that it would_ hurt _… he would find that out for himself, shortly._

" _Thence to Illian, where we board that big ship you helped to design, using plans stolen from your own Clan and kin!" Dagnon added, with righteous indignation._

 _Raab shrugged, completely unabashed at this accusatory reminder of the sort of behaviour that had led to him being declared outcast by the Takana in the first place. "And where are we sailing to after that?" Raab wondered._

 _Now it was Rashiel's turn to shrug. "I am not entirely sure of our ultimate destination, Ysmet is being rather cagey about that part… but given the sorts of dark events that have transpired at the White Tower this day, then wherever it is, it certainly can't be any worse than_ here _…" Dagnon nodded in agreement. Raab made no such gesture of concordance. In fact he looked sceptical, but then, he always did._

Rashiel Tamor sighed ruefully as she recalled her foolish words. She would trade Tar Valon in the full spate of bloody internecine feuding for the horrific Land of the Madmen, any day! Talk about out of the frying pan and into the bloody fire!

"Rashiel!" It was Ysmet calling down to her from the parapet, crouched low to avoid flying arrows and javelins. Rashiel stumbled forward to better hear her friend above the clamour of battle, Raab lingering at her side solicitously… though most probably, he just considered that being in close proximity to the Aes Sedai was currently the safest place for him. Ysmet continued; "they've broken through that ice wall the Darkfriend witch weaved, they'll be over the palisade soon! I cannot stop them, I don't have enough men!"

Rashiel glanced over at Hamadi, who was sitting cross-legged on the sand, staring fixedly at the gate, holding it shut with the Power that burned fiercely within his mind. A pair of headless corpses lay nearby, the young Shadowsworn Sea Folk who had imprudently invaded the camp alone. They had made the further mistake of choosing Hamadi for their first victim; the Sharan Ayyad had dealt with them with the ease of a hound savaging kittens, swiftly summoning a silvery straight-bladed sword of Air and decapitating his Darkfriend attackers with two lightning fast blows. Rashiel was glad that Hamadi was ostensibly on _their_ side… inflicting destruction and dealing death seemed to come to him as naturally as breathing. Gen had tucked the severed heads into a sack and run up to the parapet with them, Rashiel was unsure why and did not wish to know, in any case.

"We are going to fall back to my cabin and make a stand there," Ysmet continued to shout, "can you create a diversion for us when we do?"

"I shall try my best!" Rashiel promised, and embraced the True Source again, feeling _saidar_ flow sweetly and seductively into her, the essence of desire and danger intermixed. Her head ached badly but she was of no use to anyone if she did not channel to the greatest extent of her abilities… though with a sinking sensation, Rashiel acknowledged to herself that in a contest of the One Power between she and the vile Irmilla Nadona, the Light would undoubtedly be defeated by the Shadow.

Needing to take her mind off the current desperate situation while she awaited her moment to re-enter the fray, Rashiel asked Raab; "do you recall our escape from Tar Valon?"

Raab blinked, surprised at her choice of conversation given the situation, but then nodded. "In the _Rivershark?_ Aye. The new Amyrlin's soldiers had lowered the chain at North-harbour, but we unshipped the mast and just about squeezed under it at the edge, with your Warder using that long sweep he'd fitted at the stern to row us out into the river…" Talking seemed to serve to distract Raab from their danger also.

Rashiel continued; "then that barge full of Tower Guardsmen hoved-to in front of us and some officious little Officer demanded to know who you were, Raab…" she grinned, recollecting the arrogant way Raab had promptly answered, "…and you told him that you were an official _Atha'an Miere_ courier taking a proclamation from the new Amyrlin Seat to the Mistress of Ships!"

"I still can't fathom why the idiot _believed_ me!" Raab muttered, scathingly.

"The Officer believed you because firstly; he was stupid, and secondly; you are an excellent liar, Raab."

"Thanks."

Rashiel got to her favourite part; "and _then_ , the Officer wanted to know who _I_ was, and you said I was your _doxy!_ " She sniggered. Raab eyed Rashiel uncertainly, but she was smiling, so he sketched a smile also, a rather nervous expression given their circumstances, but a smile nonetheless. "And after _that_ , he asked who Dagnon was, and you said-"

"That he was my simple-minded, man-child cabin-boy who I generously employed to ply the oars out of sympathy for his feeble wits!" Raab almost grinned at this pleasant memory, but then recalled their imminent fate, and frowned instead.

"Dagnon is still annoyed about that, you know," Rashiel confided, "were he here now, he would-" Her mouth snapped shut, pale eyes widening; "Light! He _is_ here! I can _finally_ sense my Warder through the Bond, Renn said I would get the hang of it eventually… Dagnon is nearby, he is _close!_ "

"Too late so save us, most likely," Raab commented in dreary tones, "in fact, the Gaidin may well be a prisoner aboard that single-hulled, half-rigged Soarer that's anchored out there beyond the Storm-cursed reef…"

"Don't be such a bloody pessimist, Raab, and cut-out that nautical jargon about hulls and rigs and whatnot, you know I don't understand a word of it!"

"Sorry, Windfinder."

" _Stop_ calling me that and cheer up, you long-faced bilge-rat! We have Hamadi, remember? He is a handsome though facially-tattooed killing-machine!" Rashiel's tone became less enthusiastic, but more speculative. "Did you not tell me that there are lots and lots of these 'Ayyads' in Shara? If they're anything like Hamadi, then no wonder the Hawkwing's attempt to conquer their vast land failed… as complete a failure as when the High King endeavoured a similar conquest of the Aiel Waste…"

"This is true, Aes Sedai," rumbled a deep voice from right behind Rashiel. She jumped and whirled around, beheld the huge Aielman Gerom, his scarred face habitually placid. "Artur Paendrag Tanreall's unwise invasion of the Three-fold Land is oft commemorated by we Aiel as an honourable time for the Clans," Gerom further commented, "almost as satisfying a washing of the spears as the Trolloc Wars were, prior to this."

The one-eyed Aielman Cohradin was standing just behind Gerom, having also approached Rashiel with equal stealth. He frowned and growled; "the _Big_ Dance with the Shadow!" Rashiel blinked. Mention the Dark One and he appeared… it seemed to apply to the Aiel also!

Gerom turned to Cohradin. "Only _you_ call it that, my brother! Why must you always employ different terms for things than those that are used by everyone else?"

Cohradin drew himself up importantly. "Because I am _different_ than everyone else! I am no ordinary man! I am… heroic!" Gerom sighed loudly, shaking his head back and forth. Cohradin scowled. "Do not just stand there, looming like a big… like a big _tree!_ Ask of the Aes Sedai your boon, Gerom… I mean; Gai'shain!"

Gerom snorted, then turned back to Rashiel as he was bid. "Aes Sedai, we wish to help, to serve, as it is said our ancestors served those of your station in the Age of Legends... we ask that-"

"Command us!" interrupted Cohradin, evidently impatient with Gerom's slow speech, "do but give the order and we shall briefly relinquish our roles as Da'tsang and (less honourable!) Gai'shain, and join the Dance of Spears with these Shadowrunning Sea Fools who seek to wake us all from the Dream!"

Rashiel glanced at Raab, found no help there, and confusedly asked; "but… you both broke your spears did you not?"

"We did."

"This is true."

"Well, how can you fight the enemy _without_ them? There are some spare swords, I think, but I know that Aiel will not touch them…"

"Swords are dishonourable, like Chassin and Manda."

"I would sooner kiss Cohradin's objectionable goat than hold a sword."

Rashiel became exasperated; "well then, what use will you be without weapons, you pair of lunatics?!"

Cohradin answered proudly, but also, menacingly. "Aes Sedai, we are _Sovin Nai._ We _are_ weapons." Rashiel blinked.

After a pregnant pause, Gerom spoke up; " _Sovin Nai_ means 'Knife Hands' in the Old Tongue," he explained, helpfully.

Cohradin glared at Gerom. "Why do you trouble to tell her this? She is Aes Sedai, she _knows_ what it means!"

In point of fact, Rashiel's knowledge of this ancient language was poor, but the Aielmen did not need to know this… they seemed to be waiting for her to say something. Rashiel shrugged. What did they have to lose? "Very well. I, Rashiel Tamor, an _Aes Sedai_ of the _White Tower_ , hereby order you eccentric Aielmen to cease being… whatever it is that you think you are… and go back to being Knife Hands for the duration of this battle and… and… to fight for the Light!" Rashiel thought that she had done rather well, considering that she had been put on the spot and had never been much good at improvisation. Particularly that last bit, which had a note of triumphalism to it, she imagined.

The pair of peculiar Aielmen seemed fairly satisfied with her brief speech, though it was hard to tell what was going on in an Aiel's mind, if anything. Gerom promptly shed his grubby white robe, which Rashiel had seen him make out of an old piece of canvas sailcloth. Beneath the garment, he wore surprisingly clean smallclothes, his huge body thickly and impressively muscled, she noted with admiration… really, had Gerom's ears been hairy and his eyes larger, he might well have passed for an Ogier. He was heavily scarred also, bearing the marks of countless battles that he had survived and his opponents presumably had not…

"Unless I am Waked from the Dream," Gerom then declared, "I shall resume my Gai'shain robe and duties after the Dance of the Spears is done."

Rashiel nodded, then glanced at Cohradin, quailing a little under the gaze of his horrid crimson eye. "What about you? Will you go back to being a… a..?"

"Da'tsang, Aes Sedai. Yes, of course, my honour is equal to Gerom's. No, that is wrong… my honour exceeds his!" Gerom frowned disapprovingly at Cohradin, who did not notice and swiftly removed his dirty, dark robe. Unlike his compatriot, he had neglected to wear smallclothes beneath the garment… or indeed, anything at all.

Rashiel stared in alarm, though noting distantly that Cohradin was absolutely _covered_ in scars – how was it that he was even still _alive?_ – then hastily averted her eyes. " _Honestly!_ " she complained, "we are in the midst of a battle, we shall probably all be killed soon… I really don't need to see _that_ sort of thing right now!"

Cohradin put his hands on his hips and exchanged a puzzled glance with Gerom. "To what do you refer, Aes Sedai?"

"What do you _think_ , you rude, immodest fellow! Put your robe back on this instant!"

"I cannot do that, Aes Sedai, I have pledged to _not_ be Da'tsang until the Dance of Spears… hands… is ended, with our glorious victory over the Shadowrunners!"

Rashiel scowled, and turned to the Sea Folk outcast at her side, who was grinning lewdly. "Raab, cease that clownish expression immediately, or I shall use the One Power to transform you into the scurvy _rat_ that you so closely resemble!" Raab blanched, and composed himself, doing his best to look serious. "Better. Now, run to my hut and fetch a spare pair of Dagnon's britches… _immediately!_ "

As Raab sped away, Cohradin pridefully declared; "I am _Sovin Nai_ again, for the time being. With the Aes Sedai and Gerom as witness, I now swear on the bones of my ancestors that I shall find that Shadowrunning, Leafblighter-loving turncoat Medelin and I shall-"

" _Mastri_ ," Gerom interrupted.

"What?"

"I hear that the former Thunder Walker Medelin now calls himself 'Mastri,' which in the Old Tongue means _fish_."

Cohradin was outraged. "I care not if he is fish or fowl, or even _lizard!_ Do not interrupt me, my brother, for I have sworn to wake this Shai'tan-kissing Madfool, whatever his foolish name may be! I make solemn Water-Oath that I shall thrust my knife-hand through his chest, tear out his beating heart and make him _eat_ it!"

"Eww!" exclaimed Rashiel, involuntarily glancing back at Cohradin before averting her eyes once more. There even appeared to be a scar on his… his… fortunately, at this point Raab returned with the necessary britches. Rashiel snatched the apparel from him and hurled them at Cohradin, hitting him in the face. "Put those on now!" Rashiel commanded the nude savage, who held the garments uncertainly and hesitated. "I am an Aes Sedai, you said so yourself! You have to do as I say… so wear the britches, Aielman, or there will be _trouble!_ "

Cohradin scowled, but obeyed, if with ill grace, struggling into the pale britches, which were slightly too small for him. "They do not fit particularly well," he observed, as he fiddled with the buckles.

Rashiel smirked. "Well, personally I _like_ to see a strapping fellow in tight trews," she commented, "the tighter the better!" She could sense that Dagnon was nearer now and opened her mouth to share these tidings with _Atha'an Miere_ and Aielmen alike… but then, one of the sailors up on the parapet suddenly exploded in a welter of gore and a moment later, the gate disintegrated into a cloud of flying splinters. Rashiel sensed no flows of _saidar_ , it must be _saidin_ at work… the Darkfriend _Souvraniene_ had made his move. She prepared battle-weaves, ready to sell her life dearly, for it seemed that their time was up.

In response to this fierce channeling, Hamadi rose smoothly and strode calmly and purposefully toward the shattered breach in the palisade, to meet whatever was coming for them. He came to a halt and glanced upwards, smiling grimly and raising his hands… then the heavens opened, and the fire began to fall.

* * *

 **Act 2 – Exchanges**

 _Sin'aethan Shadar Cor_ stood on the quarterdeck of the captured ship, swaying with the movement of the waves, gazing down at the dead steerswoman with a touch of regret. N'aethan never liked to see females die, even if they _were_ sworn to the Shadow, as this one had been. And that was _quite_ a tattoo… most decorative. He wished that he could have such a colourful image inked into his epidermis, but his regenerative abilities would have just taken it for a wound of some kind and it would have faded before long; all he had in the way of skin-art was the boring number on his chest. Still, Darkfriend or not, N'aethan was glad that _he_ had not done the deed.

Manda wiped her long knife clean on the loose trews of the corpse she had just made and rose with lithe grace, cold eyes glancing disparagingly at N'aethan from above a black veil. Her voice was muffled by the cloth covering her mouth; "cease lecherously ogling the waked Shadowrunner's firm breasts, _Vron'cor!_ "

"I wasn't!" N'aethan protested.

Manda sniffed, the disapproving noise utilised by women the world over sounding equally indistinct. She tugged her veil down, since the killing was done with for the time being, her full lips arranged into a sneer. "They are shameless, these Sea Folk maidens," she commented, "flaunting their bosoms outside of the sweat-tent!"

N'aethan had noticed Manda displaying her own womanly attributes beyond these bounds on several occasions, but wisely chose to not mention this. Instead, his strange eyes swept over the main-deck below… the _Atha'an Miere_ Friends of the Dark down there were all dead or dying, mostly at the hands and blade of the Sea Folk Warder, Jabal. He evidently had a personal grudge against these 'Storm Children' as he called them. Jabal stood amongst the slain, breathing heavily, the curved, Power-wrought sword he had acquired in the Castle of the Hawx held in a double-handed grip, blood dripping from its length. His fellow Gaidin, Lord Dagnon, loomed at his back, ancient Warman Officer's weapon equally besmirched. The Heron-mark sword looked a lot like the one that Middle Brother had borne, presented to him by the Dragon himself.

N'aethan sighed sadly. Presumably, this fine, Power-forged blade had been lost with Taw up at Shayol Ghul, his Screaming Spear also… trophies of the Shadow. With this dark consideration in mind, he did not feel quite so bad about the swordfish-tattooed steerswoman, her crew and kin either… they had made their choice to serve the Dark One, and had suffered the fatal consequences of this treacherous allegiance. As would the rest of those Darkfriend Sea Folk, ere long.

With this in mind, N'aethan raised his eyes to the beach, the stockade beyond it… and stared in surprise. The wall of flames had been turned to ice since last he looked. He blinked slowly, in a feline manner. It oft surprised him that the Aes Sedai of these debased and primitive times, a mere dim reflection of their omnipotent forebears though they were, could come up with webs – no, _weaves_ they now called them – that the Servants of All in his day had never thought of. The Warder Bond, to name but one, and now, _this._ Even as he watched, the mob of Shadowsworn _Atha'an Miere_ attacking the camp were smashing their way through the ice, prior to resuming their assault on the camp which the heavily outnumbered forces of Light were desperately defending.

"Time to move the Dance of Spears to the land, methinks," N'aethan suggested to Manda.

"You do not _have_ a spear, Nightwatcher!" Manda retorted, shading her eyes and peering at the forest to the west. "Who are those three Wetlanders running from the trees?" she then wondered, pointing with her knife.

N'aethan looked in the indicated direction. "It seems that Lord Whitecloak and the Twins are joining the fight."

Manda nodded sagely. "A wise stratagem; taking the Shadowrunners unawares… but the handsome Lordling and the comely Brothers of the Battles will assuredly be slain, for there are too many of the foe for them to wake." She sighed, gustily. "A shame that such pretty fellows should meet their end."

"Your concern is duly noted," N'aethan commented sarcastically. Manda merely shrugged. N'aethan called down to the Warders; "Fishy! Moustache-face! Back in the boat, now!" Frowning, Jabal and Dagnon hurried to the steps leading up to the quarterdeck, wiping their blades clean as they did so. N'aethan turned to look over the stern. Apart from the foaming white breakers about the coral reef where the masts of a sunken vessel projected from the sea, the rippling waves were seemingly empty. With the exception of an area near the rudder, where up close, there was a faint blurring, a shimmering above the water as though something floated there unseen, all-but hidden from sight. Which it did, of course. "Enough with the invisibility, Gleeman!" N'aethan shouted, "there are no eyes left to see us!" In response, there came a shrill note from below and a longboat appeared from nowhere, filled with nervous sailors and their not-so nervous Bosun. As well as the Gleeman, Roth Blucha, lowering a small, round pipe from his lips.

N'aethan had his suspicions about that particular instrument- _ter'angreal._ It was almost certainly the same that Uncle Gwili made, long ago. Everyone he knew from those times was gone, but certain more permeable artefacts seemed to keep turning up; the Horn of T'oph, Kiam Sedai's old soldier's _angreal_ , the pipe that bent light… what next? Their reappearance could just be coincidence, but N'aethan firmly believed that there was no such thing. Fate, then.

The Gleeman was looking less sickly now, but he would still not be of much use in the coming encounter. "Get up here, Master Blucha," N'aethan commanded, extending a gloved hand.

Roth's face fell, the new, red scar on his cheek twitching. "On board the ship?" he whined, "must I?"

"Yes. Someone should stay to guard our prize… I nominate _you!_ " N'aethan grinned, his sharp teeth flashing in the bright sunlight, "just don't ask me _why_ … you won't like the answer!" The Bosun chuckled and slapped Roth encouragingly on the back, making him stagger and almost fall into the water. He scowled. N'aethan noticed that Chassin was still squatting in the stern of the longboat, clutching the tiller. "What do you there, Chassin?" he demanded of the diminutive Aielman, "you missed the fray! Unusual behaviour for a bloodthirsty fellow like yourself! Have you decided to lay down the spear also?"

Chassin shook his head vehemently. "Never, _Vron'cor!_ I am no fool, like Gerom and Cohradin…"

"Cohradin is not just a fool, he is also an _idiot!_ " Manda corrected him, as the Warders joined she and N'aethan on the quarterdeck.

Chassin ignored her. "I keep my honourable station on board of the boat," he explained importantly, "as steersman of this craft, I may not-"

"Never mind!" N'aethan interrupted impatiently, "come along, Gleeman… time is wasting!"

"I wanted to set foot on land again," Roth grumbled as he tucked his pipe- _ter'angreal_ away and scrambled awkwardly up the stern ladder, "I am worried about Ysmet and sick of the bloody sea!"

"You have certainly been sick _into_ the sea," N'aethan observed, grabbing one of the Gleeman's flailing hands and tugging him upwards, "rather frequently, in fact."

"Please don't remind me!" Roth importuned, then jumped as Manda, ostensibly helping to pull him over the side, took the opportunity to lewdly pinch his bottom. Roth glared at her, Manda winked slyly. N'aethan pretended not to notice. Roth's sea-green eyes moved to the mayhem surrounding the stockade and he flinched. "On the other hand," he muttered, "you _do_ need someone responsible to tend this captured vessel…" his eyes widened as something optimistic occurred to him; "…which we can now sail back to the Westlands in! Hurrah!"

"Only _after_ we have rescued Renn and the others," Jabal growled, pushing past and dropping nimbly down into the longboat.

Dagnon eyed Roth contemptuously as he followed. "Responsible, _you?_ " he snarled, "why, we shall probably return to find the bloody ship on fire!"

Roth frowned, then Manda slipped past, patting him on the cheek. "You look so much more handsome with a warrior's scar, Roth Blucha," she cooed.

"My _wife_ will certainly think so!" Roth answered, pointedly.

"Huh!" Manda retorted, "she is but a soft, Wetlander Noblewoman… mayhap I shall _fight_ her for your favours, Gleeman?" With that, she deftly descended to the waiting boat, veiling herself again.

"Flaming Maidens of the Spear!" Roth muttered, "they're _insatiable!_ "

"You make that sound as though it is a _bad_ thing!" N'aethan jested as he swung a leg over the rail. He paused and nodded toward the main-deck. "A couple of those Shadowsworn brigands looked to still be breathing, though barely… you know what to do?"

Roth nodded glumly, unsheathing his poniard and brandishing the long, slim dagger reluctantly. Shrina's curved-forward blade was strapped to his back, alongside his harp-case. "War is a terrible thing," Roth observed.

N'aethan laughed, an odd, mewling sound. "You think this mild diversion a _war?_ Pray to the Creator that you never participate in a _real_ battle, Gleeman!

Roth shrugged. "Oh, but I pray to the Creator all the time…" he sighed, theatrically. "Never answers me, though."

" _Of course_ your prayers are answered! You are _still alive_ , are you not?"

A fiery flash in the heavens and they both turned to stare as bright plumes of flame began to descend from the sky, striking around the camp. Roth gasped, cowering, but N'aethan simply watched, his pupils narrowing to slits. "Interesting," he commented, "you know, Gleeman, the last occasion on which I saw Fire Rain was back when I fought with Goaeur Rantoel."

"Who?" Roth wondered absently, eyes fixed on the burning destruction.

"You do not recall this story? Know you nothing of your trade, Gleeman? Goaeur was a Companion, and I bested him!"

"A Companion, say you? Of Illian?"

"Of the _Dragon_ , lackwit!" N'aethan fumed; "do _none_ remember my bold exploits?" Roth shook his head apologetically.

"Master Shieldman?" It was the Bosun, standing in the bow of the longboat bobbing on the waves below, swaying back and forth with the motion. The crew were staring up at them, those who were not gazing open-mouthed upon the flames falling from the sky.

"Yes, Boatswain?"

"Are you coming aboard? It's just that's our camp the pirate scum are attacking, and the lads are eager to-"

"Yes, yes, I will be with you momentarily." N'aethan glared at Roth. "We shall continue this discussion at another time. Or not. I go now to perhaps kill numerous Friends of the Dark."

"And save my wife from the fiery downfall?"

"I think me _that_ is the work of someone on _our_ side, since the Rain of Fire only seems to be hitting the Shadowsworn lines… but yes, I shall also save your spouse, that too." N'aethan poked a finger into Roth's chest. "In the meantime, despatch the wounded and ensure that this ship does not fall into the hands of an enemy… piratical mermaids, perchance?"

Roth solemnly placed a hand over his heart, for all that he seemed to think that this organ resided in the right-hand side of his chest. "You can count on me."

"Doubtful!"

With that, N'aethan dropped down into the longboat, which promptly pulled away from the stern, heading landwards as fast as the sailors could ply the oars.

"Good luck!" Roth shouted. Though N'aethan had a feeling that they would need more than just fortune's favour…

* * *

Lord Thaeus of House Desiama dropped beneath the whirling axe, letting the deadly weapon sweep over his head, so close that he felt he might have lost a few hairs to its keen edge. The stocky Sea Folk Darkfriend wielding it had clearly expected the axe-head to lodge in his skull, and had employed considerable force with her brutal blow… as a result of failing to connect with her opponent, she was temporarily overbalanced. Vulnerable. Thaeus saw her dark eyes widen with the knowledge of her mistake, teeth bared in her dark face, a snarl of rage as much directed at herself as him, he imagined. He wasted no time, but took full advantage of the opening. His venerable and ruthless father, Lord Guye, had taught him to always exploit an enemy's weakness when such an opportunity presented itself, for it might not come again.

Thaeus darted in, lunging into the sword-form of the Leopard's Caress, and deftly gutted his opponent. The Shadowsworn _Atha'an Miere_ woman shrieked, dropped her axe and fell back to the sand, writhing in her own gore… affording Thaeus a temporary respite. 'The bone-yards are full of soldiers who _hesitated_ , who flinched from killing,' Lord Guye had told him often, usually after leaving plenty of bruises and scrapes upon his youngest son with a practice sword. For an old man with a limp, he had always been accursed dangerous with any weapon that came to hand…

"I did not hesitate, father," Thaeus whispered as he glanced left and right, to see how the Gaidin Twins were doing. They were doing fine. Just seeing them go about their bloody work served to illustrate how difficult it had been for the Children of Light to execute Aes Sedai witches, given that well-trained, battle-hardened Warders of the White Tower stood between them and their prospective victims. Though a more affable comparison rested on the trouble Tear had long experienced in subduing the tiny neighbouring city-state to the east of its borders…

" _Tai'shar Mayene!_ " Thaeus shouted to the Twins in encouragement, though they seemed to need none as they spun and leapt amongst the enemy, blades dipping and weaving, a dance of death amidst a welter of shed blood.

Aebel and Blaek must have heard over the shouts and screams, however, for they took the trouble to reciprocate, yelling; " _Tai'shar Amadicia!_ " in response. At exactly the same time. Thaeus wondered, not for the first time, how the Mayener brothers _did_ that… was simultaneous speech some sort of-?

A howling Sea Folk Darkfriend, a head taller than his slight people usually were, broke Thaeus' train of thought by charging him with a wickedly-barbed spear levelled. The young Amadici Lord waited till the last moment, then sidestepped and neatly took his attacker's head off with Lizard in the Thornbush. Two more _Atha'an Miere_ brigands ran forward on the heels of their decapitated kinsman and Thaeus shifted his stance, raising the ancient, Power-wrought blade of his House, preparing to meet them. They were dangerous, true… but he was _deadly_. As a result, he would live, whilst they would die.

The surprise raid from the forest had gone well from the beginning, the first dozen enemies that Thaeus and the Twins slew had not even seen death coming for them… but the Darkfriend pirates had soon taken note of the fact that they were being attacked in the rear, and a score of them had broken-off from the assault on the camp to deal with this new threat. Well, that _had_ been the purpose of their diversion, after all… to draw a substantial force away from the primary objective, to give the outnumbered defenders a better chance of holding off their foe.

As he parried the long knives of his opponents, Thaeus could see an untidy line of brigands forming-up beyond them, javelins raised, preparing to end the fight from a safe distance. "That is hardly sporting!" Thaeus muttered, as he used the Courtier Taps the Fan to sever the knife-hand of one of his attackers, then Lion on the Hill to cleave the skull of the other.

"Ware spears!" Thaeus loudly warned the Twins, then grabbed the short Sea Folk Darkfriend who was clutching at his spurting stump and wailing, gripping him by the throat and ducking behind him as several javelins flew through the air towards them. Some missed entirely, but three hit the unfortunate Shadowsworn _Atha'an Miere_ in the back, stilling his agonised cries. His thrashing struggles ceased and he went limp. Thaeus quit sheltering behind the corpse and let the dead pirate fall away, distantly noting that he had what looked like a Silverpike tattooed across his chest.

"You made an excellent shield, Darkfriend," Thaeus complimented his fallen enemy, glancing to either side. The Twins were still standing, eyeing him with dark, identical gazes. There did not appear to be any javelins in _their_ vicinity…

"They threw them all at _you_ , Lord Whitecloak," Aebel complained, as he flicked the blood from his Power-wrought blade. For once, Thaeus could tell which Twin was which by glancing at their swords…

"They must think you the most dangerous," Blaek added, sounding equally aggrieved, though perhaps this was just because he was flicking more blood from a less-impressive, mundane blade.

Thaeus shrugged, then grinned. "Well, I _am!_ I've killed a Myrddraal! Have _you?_ "

"No."

"Not yet."

The Twins looked sulky. "But we _will_ , one day!" they added, fervently.

Thaeus considered. "Well, to be fair, I only chopped the Lurk's leg off… Naythan Gaidin finished it, by stamping on its head…"

" _Archers_ , to me! Bows, now!" roared a female voice, "shoot them down!" A fierce-looking Shadowsworn brigand, a leather patch over one eye, was giving the order, and several of her crew were obeying, running towards them with short, recurved bows in their tattooed hands, barbed arrows nocked. Thaeus frowned. _Those_ would be harder to avoid than the javelins… the Twins moved nearer to him, though this was probably not a good idea, since they presented a better target in a group.

"Shadow-kissing cowards!" Aebel shouted.

"Face us with steel in your craven hands!" Blaek added.

The _Atha'an Miere_ Darkfriends clearly had no intention of doing so, but formed a loose rank twenty paces away, raising their bows… they could not possibly miss from that range, but were too far off for Thaeus and the Twins to attack with their blades.

"It has been an honour fighting beside you, Lord Whitecloak," the Warder brothers stated quietly, clearly seeing the end in sight.

"Pessimists!" Thaeus responded, letting the Family Sword fall to the sand, reaching out for something intangible with his mind.

The Twins noted the way that Thaeus had raised his hands and was making grasping motions with his fingers… they eyed each other askance.

"Are you perhaps trying to surrender?"

"They won't accept capitulation, Darkfriends don't take prisoners…"

"Unless they want to torture you, brother!"

"Oh yes, I forgot about that, so I suppose that sometimes-"

"Shut-up, will you?!" Thaeus snarled, "I am… attempting to… concentrate…"

"On what?" the Twins wondered.

"Something that… Hamadi… tried to… teach me…" Thaeus' teeth were gritted, his eyes staring blindly… he felt the sickening sensation of _saidin_ flow into him, accompanied by the comforting feeling of being _complete_ … now, if he could only manage to weave a… " _Shield_ ," Thaeus gasped, "we need… a shield…"

"Too late," the Twins observed, dolefully.

The Shadowsworn Sea Folk archers had levelled their bows, bright sunlight glinting off the keen arrowheads, and the brigand with the eye-patch smiled cruelly, before opening her mouth wider to give the command to loose.

It was at this point that fire began to rain down onto the beach, the very first flaming plume striking the Sea Folk woman giving the orders, all-but obliterating her into a burning ruin, only a charred, blackened skeleton remaining. The _Atha'an Miere_ archers lowered their bows, gaping in consternation at what was left of their Bosun… and then, another fiery missile struck their ranks, immolating three of them outright and scattering the rest. They fled back up the beach, nursing seared skin.

Thaeus sensed imminent danger and promptly channeled, raising a Shield of Air over his head, the weaves coming to him unconsciously, as though he had done this a thousand times before, instead of never. Though perhaps he had performed this act previously, in other lives? Whatever the provenance of his action, it came just in time; a plume of fire burst overhead as it struck the invisible barrier, flaming shards erupting outwards on all sides. Thaeus sank to his knees with a groan, exerting every fibre of his will on maintaining the Shield. Aebel and Blaek crouched beside him, staring up the beach where more fire was descending from the sky, destroying numerous Darkfriends and plunging their brethren into disarray. The attack on the stockade was quite comprehensively halted for the time being…

"What is this burning downpour?" Aebel demanded loudly, so as to be heard over the roar of flames, the screams of the dying.

"I don't know!" Blaek answered at an equal volume, "but it's even worse than Shrina's bloody lightning!"

"No… it isn't!" Thaeus gasped through bared teeth, as further fire exploded against the Shield above. He groaned again. "I do not know… how much longer… I can hold this…" Then, _saidin_ slipped away from him and he felt the Shield disappear. Fortunately, at that same moment, so did the burning rain. The beach seemed strangely silent in the aftermath; just the cries of the scorched wounded, the crackle of flames from where some of the longboats drawn up on the shore had been set ablaze.

Thaeus blinked some sand out of his eyes, his vision blurred, indistinctly observing as another boat drew in to land down there, a dozen-and-a-half people leaping out to splash through the surf, running up the beach towards them. He retrieved his Heron-mark sword and stumbled to his feet, head spinning, seeing double.

"Look out, here come more of the Dark-loving filth!" Thaeus slurred.

The Twins eyed Thaeus strangely, but then, they often did. They answered;

"That is Naythan Shieldman with Jabal Gaidin…"

"…it is good to see that Jabal yet lives…"

"…also; Rashiel Sedai's Murandian Warder…"

"…we do not recall his name…"

"…as well as some sailors led by a man with a hook…"

"…he looks to be a _Tairen_ , misfortunately…"

The Twins completed their report in unison; "… _and_ the missing Aiel, the short, violent one alongside the salacious maiden!" They paused a moment. "There is no sign of the foolish Gleeman, however," they added simultaneously, sounding pleased.

Thaeus blinked again, his vision slowly returning to normal. He waved his sword at Naythan Gaidin, who waved his own blade back as the reinforcements approached. Then, something broke the relative silence; a deep, hollow boom, like thunder, followed by two more eruptions. The ominous noise came from the stockade.

"What was that?" wondered the Twins.

Thaeus frowned, muttering; "I think me that the Father of Storms has come…"

* * *

Irmilla Nadona crouched up against the palisade, seeking insufficient shelter from the fiery rain that obliterated anything – or _anyone_ – it touched. Still, better here than out in the open. She watched closely as the tall Samma N'Sei, Mastri, strode uncaring through the burning chaos, Waketa fighters fleeing the blazing downpour all around him… some were aflame, screeching in agony, their kin knocking them down and rolling them in the sand in mostly futile attempts to save them. A plume of fire dropped directly onto Mastri, but shattered harmlessly above his shoufa-swathed head as it impacted against an invisible Shield. Irmilla frowned, envy in her eyes. She would gladly have woven her _own_ Shield, a barrier of Air, but was unable to… her Dread Mistress had tried repeatedly to teach her the weave, but her Apprentice lacked the aptitude for it.

"Shadowrunner! Stop these storm-cursed flames from falling!" Duadh bellowed at the Eye Blinder. Irmilla was uncertain if Mastri even heard over the cacophony of shouts and screams, the roaring furnace-noises as each blazing missile struck the beach, but a moment later, the Aielman paused and raised his hands, a look of intense concentration on his gaunt face. In an instant, the terrible rain of fire ended as abruptly as it had begun. Shocking silence descended, broken only by the crackle of burning wood, the groans of the wounded and dying.

Short of the breach he had made in the stockade, Mastri turned to look upon Duadh with his disturbing gaze, the Clan Waketa Sailmaster also taking cover up against the wooden logs alongside a score of his more prudent crew. "I see you, Duadh din Retif!" the Samma N'Sei commented loudly, "I go now to settle with the Sharaman." He grinned in ghastly fashion, baring his filed teeth savagely. "For the coming Dance, I use the Power, not spears; I cannot answer for your safety if you get in my way." With that, Mastri turned and stepped through the hole in the palisade, disappearing from sight, everyone's eyes on him.

Except Irmilla's. By this point, she had risen unsteadily and, holding her skirts clear of her knees, was dashing east around the corner of the stockade, keeping close to the wooden walls so as to not be seen from above. Let Duadh and what was left of his people make a frontal assault, losing their lives in the process, most likely… assuredly, not all would perish and as long as there were enough of the Waketa left to sail her home to the Westlands, she cared not what became of the rest. Entering the camp through that breach or climbing the palisade would clearly be dangerous, and Irmilla had never been in favour of putting herself in harm's way any more than she had to, given that she wished to live forever. No, she had a better idea… there was most probably a back way into the camp, she would find it and deal with that odious slut, Rashiel. _And_ her snobbish friend. Irmilla did not care what became of the Noblewoman at Duadh's hands, and his crew could loot what they liked from the camp; but that striking, bejewelled marriage-knife she coveted… it would be a valuable and desirable item to add to her collection, would compensate her for the trouble she had been put to.

Head yet spinning from her channeling exertions, Irmilla hastened unsteadily around the next corner and beheld the rear wall of the stockade, bordering on the forest. A couple of dead Waketa lay on their backs before it, crossbow-bolts embedded in their still corpses, but there was no sign of anyone living. A loud boom resonated from within the camp, sounding like thunder, followed by a further pair of resounding crashes. Irmilla flinched. Even after all these years as a Friend of the Dark, the sorts of horrific things she had seen and participated in, she was not so hardened against terror that the prospect of a duel of Power between two deadly, _saidin_ -cursed Madmen did not fill her with dread. She would really rather not go into the camp until it was all over, but if her Dread Mistress discovered that she had shirked her duty… _that_ was an eventuality too terrifying to contemplate.

Arachnae Kirikil might represent herself as a kind-natured old lady, there may even have been genuine affection for her talented young Apprentice within her… but her benevolent manner did not fool Irmilla for an instant. Her Mistress simply was not human, and had not been so for a very long time. She was something else now, something other, inhuman entirely and capable of acts of cruelty and malice that even Irmilla might have shrunk from. Why, she had once spent most of a night making an insubordinate Myrddraal scream its throat raw, just to see if it could be done! The methods she had employed to produce this reaction yet gave Irmilla nightmares… No, failing the Dread Mistress was in no way an option, not if she wished to live to see the dawning of another Age.

Irmilla scanned the long section of stockade, wondering if she had been wrong… perhaps there _was_ no rear door? Could she scale the palisade? It was rather high… probably not, she had little skill with that sort of thing. Why had she not thought to bring a rope? Fool!

"Who are you?" enquired a clear yet bland voice from right behind Irmilla. She all but jumped out of her skin, whirling around, eyes wide. Naturally, she yet held _saidar_ and prepared to lash out with a suitably deadly weave, but in the event, did not need to. An Aielman stood too close for comfort, as tall as the one-eyed savage from the meeting earlier, if less off-putting in appearance. He had vacant green eyes and his hair was auburn, longer than that of the other Aiel. He wore the distinctive dusty brown clothing of his people… but bore no weapons. Instead, he held a large bucket in each hand.

Irmilla raised her eyebrows, her wariness receding, but took a cautious step back even so, coming into contact with the logs of the palisade. "Never you mind who _I_ am, Aielman!" she snapped, "who in the Wheel are _you_ , to come sneaking up on me like that?"

"I am Ruon," declared the savage, his voice all-but devoid of intonation; "once of the Blue Canyon Sept of the Tomanelle Aiel, but no longer." He nodded at the camp behind her. "This is my Hold, now."

The fellow had a strange manner, Irmilla felt, but then, he _was_ an Aielman… they were _all_ strange. "You live here?" she demanded. Ruon nodded. "Do you not know that your home is being _attacked?_ "

Ruon shrugged, giving the impression that he cared little about this, or indeed, anything else. "I heard the clamour of the Dance from the forest, I saw fires fall from out of the sky…" further thunderous booms erupted from the other side of the palisade, "…and that also, of course, whatever it is."

"This does not concern you?" Irmilla wondered. Ruon shook his head and set the buckets down wearily, rubbing at his back. Irmilla glanced at the wooden containers; they were full of water. "Why are you not helping to defend the camp, and carrying water buckets about in stead?" she demanded, incredulously.

Ruon eyed her with his empty gaze, smiled a small, bitter smile. "My Society was _Duadhe Mahdi'in_ before the _Car'a'carn_ came, the Water Seekers. What better toil for me to engage in?" A trace of what might almost have been pride entered his toneless voice; "when first we were wrecked here, it was I who found the spring, up in the hills beyond the forest."

"Fascinating," Irmilla observed, "but for now, why don't you make yourself useful in another wise, and tell me if there is a back door to this stockade?"

Ruon blinked slowly. "Oh, there is, Wetlander… but I do not think my Captain-Chief would wish for me to show it to you."

Irmilla bared small, white teeth dangerously. "Oh? Whyever not?"

Ruon smiled bleakly. "Because you did not tell me your name, and also because you have an evil aspect to you… I think that you are one of those who raid my Sept. I will tell you nothing."

Irmilla shook her head slowly, gathering the complex flows that Compulsion required. Strange that something as simple as a Shield was beyond her ability, whilst the far more difficult weave that bent others to one's will had always come relatively easily… but then, Irmilla had long experience in the arts of manipulation, combined with a penchant for discovering people's secrets. She smiled coldly at Ruon, preparing herself to invade and subdue his mind…

"No, savage… as it just so happens, you shall tell me _everything._ "

* * *

The Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar felt the parapet beneath her tremble as another thunderclap rocked the camp. She wondered if the thin wooden platform would collapse and plunge she and her dozen crew down to the sand below. For now, it held. She should have been watching the killing-ground in front of the stockade for enemies, but raising one's head above the hoarding was a sure way to attract arrows; she had already lost a couple of men to the accuracy of the Darkfriend archers though fortunately, there were not that many of them. Besides, Ysmet's attention was currently being firmly held by something else… the dark dome of swirling black mist, lit across its surface by periodic flashes of lightning, that had appeared inside the gateway to the camp. The eldritch dome was already two-dozen spans in circumference and steadily swelling in size, the sky-fire that streaked over it increasing in intensity. It was, in effect, a contained, localised thunder-storm, its destructive power growing until soon, it might eclipse and obliterate the entire camp.

Another boom of thunder emanated from the disquieting phenomenon and Ysmet frowned with grave concern. The red-veiled Aielman had summoned the dread effect and now presumably stood at the centre of his creation, controlling it. And Hamadi was in there too; he had walked calmly through the dark, roiling fog and disappeared within, most probably to his doom. Part of Ysmet wished that she could see what was going on inside, the rest of her was glad that she could not. She scanned the immediate area for Rashiel, but there was no sign of her Aes Sedai friend. Gen squatted beside her, staring at the black dome with a strange mixture of fascination and regret. Ysmet clapped him upon the shoulder, making him jump.

"Find Rashiel Sedai!" Ysmet shouted, raising her voice over the thunder of the artificial storm, "tell her to try and help Hamadi!" Gen nodded, touching a gnarled finger to his brow and dropped nimbly to the sand below, racing away between the huts. Ysmet watched him go… he certainly was spry for an old man. Just _how_ old she had no idea… but if, as the unearthly Fourthborn had asserted, Gen had once been _Souvraniene_ , then he might be of a great age indeed.

Abruptly, a grappling hook snagged on the hoarding beside Ysmet, knotted to a rope which was pulled tight, the sharp tines digging into the soft wood. She glanced to either side, noting more grapnels thrown from below, and motioned to what was left of the defenders to stand ready. Nearly half of her crew had fallen in the fighting thus far, mostly to arrows and javelins… but for the unfortunate Estal, who had been spectacularly exploded with the One Power. Well, at least it had been quick, he probably would not have had time to feel anything. But these remaining sailors were really more the survivors of the survivors, given the amount of men who had been lost in the original wreck of the _Queen Mab._ Ysmet knew all of their names and fully intended to compensate their families with adequate pensions in the unlikely event that she ever returned to Illian… even if it meant going home with her tail between her legs and begging the money from Aunt Tylin! A truly frightening prospect… but for the time being, there were more pressing concerns.

Ysmet drew the fine, ivory-hilted knife from her belt, the decorative dagger that the Aielman Cohradin had gifted to her. It was very sharp, Rashiel thought the blade might be Power-wrought, but was unsure. Where had the one-eyed Aiel savage come by it? The knife was clearly not the work of his people; with its intricately carved handle, it more closely resembled a weapon of the _Atha'an Miere_.

The rope attached to the grappling hook grew taught, trembling as someone climbed. Ysmet might have cut it, had the stockade been twice as high, in the hopes that the fall would kill her enemy… but since it was not, she had other plans. A dusky Sea Folk face drew level with the top of the palisade, a long, curved dagger held between bared, white teeth, tattooed hands gripping the rope… the pirate's dark eyes widened as he beheld Ysmet. She smiled coldly and deftly slashed the Darkfriend across the throat. He uttered a choked-off cry, blood jetting from the deep wound; his hands slipped from the rope and he dropped from sight.

Ysmet checked on how her men were doing. To her right, Bari was engaged in sweeping a heavy forge-hammer down onto the skull of an invader, the thick muscles in his nautically-tattooed arms bunched with the effort… a sickening crunch of breaking bone and the brigand fell silently from the rope. Bari grinned at Ysmet, adjusting the grubby woollen hat that he never removed, even in this heat… he waved the hammer, shouting; "you said I were mad to save _this_ from the wreck, Captain… but see; tis right useful!"

"Keep your fool head down, Bari!" Ysmet responded, as a couple of retaliatory arrows whizzed overhead. The grin slipped from Bari's homely face and he ducked cautiously.

Ysmet glanced to her left in time to see Jer take care of _his_ Darkfriend. As the thin, predatory features of a Sea Folk woman appeared opposite, the fading sunlight reflecting from her golden ear and nose rings, as it did off the shiny, bald dome of Jer's head, he closed an eye and fired his crossbow at point-blank range, taking the attacker in the face. She did not so much fall from the rope as _fly_ from it, her body limp as a rag-doll, tumbling to the blood-stained sand below the stockade. Jer smiled wickedly and winked at his Captain. She scowled.

"Don't waste bolts, Jer!" Ysmet scolded, "use your flaming knife!"

Warning shouts came from the western wall of the palisade, Ysmet looked and cursed. The frontal attack had been a diversion, the main body of the enemy was coming over the stockade in force where she had not expected them. Two of the _Atha'an Miere_ Darkfriends had gained the parapet via the same rope and grapnel; they stood back to back, holding off the half-dozen sailors that were all Ysmet had been able to spare to guard that stretch of the defences. The pair of pirates were clearly buying time for more of their people to climb the stockade; Ysmet witnessed fatalistically as one with a shark tattoo crouched below the whirling hatchet of a desperate sailor, then stabbed viciously with his ivory-hilted short-sword. At the same time, the Sea Folk woman to his back was using a long knife in each hand to hold off another defender… as Ysmet watched, she saw the Darkfriend roll dexterously beneath the clumsy swipe of the sailor's cutlass and savagely disembowel him, a triumphant smile on her cruel face. Distantly, Ysmet noted that the knifewoman had a greyish fish tattooed on her back, a long tusk projecting from its mouth. She had no idea what it was…

"Don't trade hand-blows with them!" Ysmet shouted in her best quarterdeck voice, "use your _crossbows!_ "

But it was too late. Even as a sailor further along the parapet knelt and prepared to shoot, more of the Shadowsworn brigands were gaining the top of the palisade. Amongst them was their leader, the burly, shaven-skulled brute with the big axe. He vaulted over the hoarding to stand on the parapet, legs braced, then raised his axe high, threw back his head and howled in feral fashion. Answering howls erupted from his piratical people as they swarmed up ropes and scrambled over the top of the stockade.

"Shoot them down!" Ysmet yelled desperately, then dropped to the sand below, adding; "follow me!" to her men. She did not look back to see if they were obeying, but raced for the west wall, drawing her rapier as she ran. Atop the parapet, the knifewoman coughed blood as a quarrel struck her in the chest; she snarled with rage at the kneeling sailor who had shot her and with the last of her waning strength, hurled one of her daggers at him, taking him in the throat. Ysmet watched as her crewman dropped his crossbow and fell bonelessly to the sand, as the Sailmaster of these Darkfriend pirates clapped the mortally-wounded woman approvingly on the shoulder before she, too, tumbled from the parapet.

Another sailor closed-in with a knife in one hand, a belaying-pin in the other; Ysmet admired his bravery, though not his good sense. The Darkfriend Captain moved with shocking speed for such a big man, avoiding the sailor's attacks with ease in a brief flurry of rapid, economical motion, then swept his axe down in a deadly arc… and another of Ysmet's men fell, his skull cleft in twain. Meanwhile, the shark-tattooed swordsman had slain another sailor, then dropped nimbly down into the camp. His dark eyes narrowed as he saw Ysmet approach and he ran swiftly forward to meet her, white teeth flashing in his dusky face as he grinned with bloodthirsty anticipation. Even as she moved to confront him, Ysmet was aware of more pirates reaching the top of the palisade, fierce fighting in which the last few defenders of the western wall were rapidly despatched. But, as a girl in the Tarasin Palace, her first lesson from her sword-tutor had concerned the importance of focusing fully on one's opponent in a duel. Loss of concentration inevitably led to loss of life…

So, as the Darkfriend swordsman closed on her, his bloody blade raised, Ysmet shut out the rest of the world for the time that it would take to kill him. Even the expanding dome of dark, thunderous mist was temporarily forgotten as her rapier clashed repeatedly with the pirate's short-sword… parry, disengage, riposte… and from this preliminary contact, Ysmet knew that she had the better of her adversary. Apart from anything else, his sword was too short – as was _he_ – and he lacked her reach. But time was not on her side, she had to end this, and _quickly_. With a cry, Ysmet stumbled, losing her balance momentarily… grinning wider, the Darkfriend darted in to finish the fight. Ysmet promptly recovered her poise, striking his short blade aside, stamping a foot down in the sand and lunging with the speed of a striking blacklance. The point of her rapier took the swordsman neatly in the heart, then withdrew. Ysmet straightened up and raised her blade in salute, whilst the Shadowsworn pirate's dark eyes widened, as he touched a finger wonderingly to the small, deep wound in his chest, from which his life's blood spurted in time with his fading pulse.

"You… _tricked_ me, Shorebound!" the _Atha'an Miere_ brigand gasped, then collapsed to lie face down in the sand, legs kicking weakly before he went still.

With the temporary respite, Ysmet glanced over her shoulder; Bari, Jer and the others were running to join her, as were the half-dozen sailors who had been guarding the east wall of the stockade. There were no defenders left to the south that she knew of, she had pulled her men from there since this section of the palisade bordered on the dangerous forest and had therefore been built higher and stouter than the rest. It was also where the hidden rear door was situated, that the survivors might well have to use to escape into the trees if all else failed. A skilled piece of carpentry, that door, but then, it had been constructed by a skilled carpenter. Too bad what had become of old Hulan… he had unwisely gone hunting by himself one day, and when he did not return, Ysmet had led a patrol into the forest to search for him. They had found what was left of the ship's carpenter in a clearing, beside the ashes of a camp-fire. The cannibals had not left much of him, but Ysmet had ordered Hulan's meagre remains burned on a small pyre anyway, and she had said a blessing for his soul. Going into the forest alone had become an unpopular activity from then on, only Ruon did it.

As her men closed on her, Ysmet noted with rageful despair that most had left their crossbows behind on the parapet… but she forbore to scream angrily at them. That sort of thing was the Bosun's duty in any case, and he was not here, much as Ysmet wished he was. The Bosun was the only member of her crew with actual experience of warfare, which would have proved invaluable in the defence of their camp… the rest of the men were doughty and did not shrink from a fight, but sailors simply were not soldiers, and that was all there was to it. What Ysmet wouldn't give for a company of Palace Guardsmen or failing that, even just her cousin Beslan and a dozen of his rowdy, duelling drinking-companions!

Lantern-jawed Jer was in the lead of the mob of sailors coming to oppose the incursion on the west wall of the stockade; his eyes widened in alarm at the sight of something to Ysmet's rear. "Behind ye, Captain!" he warned, loudly.

Ysmet turned smoothly, leant back to let an iron-studded club whistle past her face, then smoothly riposted, the point of her rapier taking her Sea Folk assailant in the throat. She withdrew the slender blade and kicked her opponent aside; gurgling and clawing at his spurting neck-wound, the Darkfriend collapsed. Ysmet turned side-on, flicked the blood from her rapier and levelled it at two more of the pirates as they closed on her. Beyond them, a dozen more were dropping down to the sand and behind _them,_ a further score now occupied the parapet, including the octopus-tattooed Sailmaster, his blood-stained axe held loosely in one hand, the severed head of a young sailor named Owyn in the other. Their eyes met across the intervening space and the Darkfriend leader inclined his shaved-head mockingly.

"Take her alive if you can!" the Sailmaster shouted to his crew below, "and bring me that Waketa knife!"

Ysmet's brow furrowed. So the dagger was an heirloom of his Shadowsworn Clan? Its carved ivory hilt _did_ look like _Atha'an Miere_ craftsmanship… well, if that was the case, she had no wish to keep it, she wanted to possess nothing a Darkfriend might lay claim to…

The pair of pirates moved in, splitting up to attack from each flank. Ysmet smiled coldly. It was hardly the first time that she had fought multiple opponents… a brief exchange of deadly motion and it was over, one of the Darkfriends kneeling in bloodied sand, vainly trying to prevent arterial blood spilling from the deep gash in her thigh, the other flat on his back, arms and legs splayed, the Sea Folk knife sunk into his breastbone. Ysmet crouched and wrenched the ivory-hilted dagger from the dead man's mortal wound, cut the injured woman's throat with it and waved the Clan Waketa weapon tauntingly at the Sailmaster, who was yet watching from his place on the parapet, dark eyes narrowed murderously.

"You want _this_ , Darkfriend?" Ysmet shouted to the pirate leader, " _fine!_ I shall make sure to _bury_ it with you!"

"Kill the Shorebound strumpet!" the Sailmaster roared in response, and the dozen fearsome brigands at the foot of the stockade beneath him began to move purposefully forward.

"I am no strumpet!" Ysmet protested, "Rashiel is!" Which reminded her… where in the Winds _was_ that dratted Aes Sedai? Disappearing when they needed her most… had Gen found her, or had the little lecher run away into the forest to save himself? But no, Gen appeared at her side, his mouth and chin bloody. "What have you been _doing_ , Gen?" Ysmet demanded, her eyes fixed on the approaching enemy.

"Fighting!" Gen replied, baring his hideous, yellow teeth, filed to points. There was blood on them too… Ysmet would have gladly left it at that, but Gen chose to enlarge on his explanation; "which a _Shadar_ -kissing _Atha'an Miere_ did try to take my life, O succulent Captain, and having mislaid my trusty blade of dark-glass, I then did defend myself as do the _dingoes_ … why, I did tear out his throat with my fearsome fangs!"

"Urgh!" Ysmet groaned, "you didn't _eat_ any of him, did you?"

"Nay, in course I did not!" Gen refuted, sounding scandalised, "the Fox Queen taught me tis _wrong_ to dine upon man-flesh, your delectable Ladyship, which I durst never do so anymore!"

" _Anymore?_ " Ysmet muttered. "Ahh! Never mind that! _Where_ is Rashiel Sedai, you gibbering loon?!"

"She is…" Gen blinked as a large shadow fell over him, and looked up cautiously. Ysmet took her eyes off the warily advancing Darkfriends for a moment, it seemed that they were being more cautious now that they had seen what she could do with her rapier, and glanced up at the big Aielman, Gerom, standing there, his murky green eyes fixed on the enemy, an extremely serious look on his face. For some reason, he had shed his white robe and was clad only in his smallclothes, though they were very clean compared with those of most men, Ysmet distantly noted. Then, another shadow blotted out the sun; it was the heavily-scarred Aiel, their leader, Cohradin, looking even more stern than his comrade, both red and blue eyes drilling into the foe. Again, he wore no black robe… he was solely garbed in what looked like Dagnon Gaidin's best britches, oddly enough. Neither Aielman was armed.

"What do you here?" Ysmet demanded, "we are in the middle of a battle, or had you not noticed? Begone, flee to the woods and _please_ take Gen with you… I have no time for any of your idiocy!"

The Aielmen spoke without removing their implacable gazes from the steadily encroaching Darkfriends.

"Go to your hut where we have sent your sailormen also, Ysmet Mitsobar," Gerom rumbled.

"Make your stand there, as was your plan," Cohradin added flatly. It was not a request.

"What are you even going to do?" Ysmet queried desperately, glancing over her shoulder and noting that the remaining defenders had disappeared from sight, "you lack your spears, you ridiculous savages! And how dare you command my men?! _I_ am their Captain, not you!"

"The Aielfolk don't need spears to slay them Friends o' the Darkness… which they could _bite_ 'em!" Gen suggested. Ysmet frowned at him. "With their _teeth!_ " Gen added, in case she had not taken his point. Ysmet scowled.

" _Go!_ " Cohradin shouted, " _now!_ " To her considerable surprise, Ysmet found herself obeying, hastening back to her cabin, from whence she could see sailors aiming the few crossbows left to them out of the small windows. Bari and Jer lingered nervously in the doorway, motioning franticly for their Captain to hurry. Gen trailed at Ysmet's side, wiping his sticky mouth with the back of a dirty hand. From behind, Ysmet heard harsh screams and quickened her pace, regretting the loss of the Aielmen… Cohradin had been a fool, true, but in that moment there had been something commanding, almost noble, in his unaccustomedly grim visage; a hint of heroism, even?

Ysmet paused in the doorway of her hut, the structure larger and more stoutly-built than the others, looking back… she fully expected to see the Darkfriend pirates butchering the corpses of the two mad Aiel… she blinked. Cohradin and Gerom stood calmly in the midst of a dozen dead Shadowsworn brigands, their bodies lying in twisted attitudes of violent demise about the Aielmen's feet.

"Did you see what they did, Gen?" Ysmet gasped.

Gen nodded, smiling with morbid relish. "Aye, curvaceous Captain Ysmet! The deathsome Aiels did hit them… and kick them, and… and other things besides…" he shrugged, "…in truth, it did all happen so _fast_ , why, I could not quite-"

"Come-on, Captain!" Jer cried, tugging at Ysmet's sleeve.

"Get in here Gen, you raving turnip-head!" Bari added, urgently.

Ysmet felt amazement as she ducked into her cabin. She had known that the savage denizens of the Waste were deadly, of course, she had lost two cousins and an uncle in the Aiel War… but she had not realised quite what they were capable of, even _without_ their spears…

The cramped interior of the hut was stuffed full of sailors, some nursing crudely bandaged flesh wounds… but not near so many of Ysmet's crew as there _should_ have been, she had lost several good men.

"Alright," the Lady Ysmet commanded, "pick up the bed and barricade the door with it!" As the more able-bodied of her crew rushed to obey, Ysmet frowned with concern. In all of the excitement, she had quite forgotten… _where was Rashiel?_

* * *

Rashiel Tamor gaped in consternation at the flickering dome of dark mist, striated with jagged forks of lightning, that had appeared in the gateway of the stockade. The red-veiled Aiel channeler had created it, and Hamadi had walked calmly into the storm to face his Shadowsworn adversary, almost as though compelled to. Should she go in too? Rashiel had no desire to enter the forbidding _saidin_ -cloud, or whatever it was, but Hamadi might need her help. The Sharan youth was powerful, true… he had summoned the burning rain, after all, something far beyond Rashiel's capability for channeling she was sure, even had she known how to. But then, the Darkfriend Aielman had seemingly dispelled this same weaving of Fire with ease… he could well be _more_ powerful than Hamadi, much more.

"I expect it is like the Breaking of the World inside that storm thing," Rashiel commented to Raab. No answer. She turned to look… Raab was gone, he must have slipped away whilst she had been staring at the lightning-riven dome! Doubtless he had lost his nerve and run off into the trees, the little rat! Well, he had best watch out for the cannibals that lurked within the forest in that wise, or suffer the fate of poor old Hulan, the ship's carpenter. "Raab probably wouldn't taste very nice, anyway," Rashiel muttered spitefully, "there are some things that even cannibals won't eat!"

Rashiel's pale eyes were abruptly drawn to a flicker of movement between two huts, further back in the camp. Raab? No… no, it was just Ruon, striding along with his buckets. He had been fetching water in the middle of a battle? Well, nothing about the resolutely pacifistic Aielman would surprise her… or _any_ of the Aiel for that matter, they were quite clearly all completely _mad!_ _And_ she had told Raab to choose a pair of Dagnon's _old_ britches for Cohradin to wear… the snivelling idiot had fetched the _best_ ones instead! Dagnon would not be pleased, he did not possess much in the way of fine clothes. Rashiel was certain that she could still sense her Warder nearby, but there was no sign of him as yet… would he arrive only in time to avenge her death?

"Ruon!" Rashiel called out, "where have you been? Don't you know we're being _invaded?!_ " By way of an answer, Ruon paused some fifty paces away, lowered his buckets to the sand and smiled an enigmatic smile. Rashiel blinked. She did not think that she had ever seen Ruon _smile_ before! "Ruon..?" she repeated, uncertainly. The tall, auburn-haired Aielman turned on his heel and disappeared into the nearest hut. Rashiel frowned. That was _her_ hut, hers and Dagnon's… Ruon wasn't allowed in _there!_

Rashiel took a quick glance up at the parapet; Ysmet and her men were crouched there, waiting to repel the enemy, and after a final worried gaze upon the dark and foggy dome, which seemed to be expanding in size, Rashiel hastened over to her hut, ready to give Ruon the rough side of her tongue! They did not need _water_ now, they needed fighting men… and they had three fearsome Aiel warriors present in the camp, every one of whom had thrown away his spears! It really was _too_ provoking!

Within Rashiel's hut it was dark, the oil-lamps were not lit. Ruon stood by the far wall, half-hidden in the gloom, waiting for her it seemed. "Ruon, what do you think you are-?" The words stuck in Rashiel's throat – Ruon was channeling _saidar!_ A powerful force clamped down upon Rashiel; she fought it, desperately attempting to embrace the True Source, trying to dispel the assault, but there was nothing there… she had been Shielded! She could not even _sense_ the One Power! Potent weaves of Air pressed down upon Rashiel's shoulders, forcing her to kneel upon the threadbare rug, whilst more flows snaked around her wrists and ankles, binding her… and Ruon flickered, growing smaller, his _cadin'sor_ shifting to colourful silk and pale lace, his features changing to a pouting, sly, feminine face that Rashiel knew all too well.

"Irmilla!" she moaned, eyes widening in disbelief.

"Hello, dearest Rashiel," Irmilla purred, "we meet again…" She took a few slow, sinuous steps forward until she stood before the kneeling, bound Aes Sedai, gazing down at her with predatory satisfaction. "Surprised? You certainly _look_ surprised. Something my Dread Mistress taught me, a bit like the Mirror of the Mists only more subtle… I can look like anyone I choose. A useful skill, don't you think?"

"What did you do to Ruon?" Rashiel demanded.

"The lowly Aielman?" Irmilla examined her fingernails idly. "He did not appear to be enjoying life very much… I put him out of his misery."

Rashiel opened her mouth to angrily lambaste Irmilla for yet another murder in her long list of crimes, but then closed it. She was being taunted, she would not rise to the vile Darkfriend's bait. Instead, she chose to maintain a belligerent, resentful silence.

Irmilla's smile widened until she was showing her teeth, then she slapped Rashiel hard across the side of her face. Rashiel turned her head, then turned it back, pale eyes glaring up at Irmilla defiantly. "That was for calling me a 'bitch,'" Irmilla explained. She then slapped Rashiel across the other side of her face, harder this time, no doubt trying to provoke some sort of a reaction. Rashiel gave her no such satisfaction; the blow had nearly knocked her onto her side, but she straightened up, blinking back tears of pain, and continued to glower up at her captor. "And _that_ ," Irmilla went on, unhurriedly, "was for calling me a 'bitch' _again!_ "

"You _are_ a bitch, Irmilla," Rashiel pointed-out, adding wearily; "just kill me and get it over with. I am tired of listening to you. Ever were you tedious as a novice, and you have only grown more boring in the years since…"

Irmilla scowled and raised her hand to deliver a third slap… but then lowered it, resuming her predatory smile. "Kill you, Rashiel? Oh no, I have changed my mind about _that_ … I want you to live for a very long time, in fact, to serve me faithfully in the most menial and degrading of tasks…" Irmilla's smile widened, the pupils of her dark eyes shrinking to pinpoints, "…I'm not going to _kill_ you, my dear, I'm going to _still_ you!"

Rashiel's soul shrank with horror at the prospect of being irrecoverably cut-off from the True Source and despite her best efforts, she could not prevent a moan of terror from escaping her lips. Irmilla laughed delightedly. With every ounce of strength she possessed, Rashiel fought against the Shield that blocked her from connecting with the One Power, desperately tried to fill herself with _saidar_ … but to no avail.

Irmilla smirked. "Attempting to break my preventative weave, Rashiel? Some chance!" She reached into the pocket of her lacy blouse. "You might have had an iota of success if you but possessed one of _these_ …" she drew out a dark, heart-shaped jewel and held it up, "…the _angreal_ that my Mistress gifted me with. But as it is, you could sooner keep your legs closed in the company of a handsome gallant than you could now embrace _saidar!_ "

Irmilla laughed delightedly at her cruel wit… people who expressed mirth at their own jests were usually far from as funny as they thought they were, Rashiel considered. She scowled up at Irmilla, disliking her choice of comparison even so, desperately trying to think of a way out of this dire situation. But there was simply none that occurred to her…

Irmilla assumed a more serious mien. "Now, dear Rashiel, it is time for you to bid the True Source farewell… forever!" She tucked the jewel- _angreal_ back into her pocket and placed her hands on either side of Rashiel's head, preparatory to stilling her. Rashiel knew better than to beg for mercy; apart from the fact that Irmilla did not know the meaning of the word, she would give this… this _bitch_ no such gratification! But she closed her eyes tightly, in an attempt to lessen the misery of the moment.

As such, she heard a familiar voice speak, but did not immediately see the speaker. "Excuse me, Windfinder?"

"I am _busy!_ What do you _want_ , imbecile?!"

"Forgive the interruption… I was sent to find you…"

Rashiel's eyes snapped open… she _knew_ that voice! She turned her head, about the only part of her that she could currently move, and stared. Raab stood in the doorway, a hand resting on the ivory hilt of the sword tucked through his sash. He looked much as he usually did, but there now seemed to be an element of _danger_ to him that was not usually present. _And_ he had what appeared to be a large tattoo on his bare chest; some sort of golden fish with a great many sharp teeth… squinting at it, Rashiel could detect that it had been _painted_ on, and none too skilfully either! She only hoped that Irmilla would not notice, it was dark in here after all and the sly-tongued little trull had never been too observant…

Raab cleared his throat, held up a slip of paper and stated, in rough, piratical tones; "may it please the Dark, Windfinder, I bear a message from the Sailmaster."

Irmilla frowned, not bothering to do more than glance at Raab, her attention focused on her victim. "What in the Pit does Duadh want _now?_ " she muttered, "never a moment's peace…" Her wicked gaze remained fixed on Rashiel, who did her best to hold the Darkfriend's interest by letting her lower lip tremble a little and widening her eyes as though terrified. This required less pretence than she would have liked… Smiling down at her prey, Irmilla held out an imperious hand to the messenger. "Give it here, then."

Raab shuffled over but his bare feet somehow got tangled in the rug and with a surprised yelp, he stumbled forward, bumping into Irmilla, tattooed hands flailing at her briefly.

"Get off me you clumsy fool!" Irmilla shouted, shoving Raab away.

Raab staggered back, tripping on the rug once more, and ended on his backside, leaning against the wall of the hut. "A thousand apologies, Windfinder!" he cried out.

Irmilla glared down at Raab, then paused a moment. Rashiel could not see her face but when next she spoke, Irmilla sounded distinctly suspicious. "Hold… I've not seen you before… what's your name?" The note had fallen to the floor in the confusion, she picked it up.

"Caroc din Rieta Lionfish!" Raab answered promptly.

"Oh..?"

"I'm the bilge-boy! You've not met me for I am most usually down below in the bowels of the ship, manning the pumps…" It all sounded plausible, once again Rashiel was impressed by Raab's facility for lying.

"It appears that you're an important member of the crew," Irmilla drawled with heavy sarcasm, then glanced down at the note, half swivelling back to Rashiel. Irmilla's brow furrowed with confusion, she turned the paper over to look on the other side, but was left none the wiser. "What is this, some silly joke? There is nothing writ upon it!"

Raab sprang to his feet, yanking the short-sword from his sash. Irmilla did not immediately react since she had discovered a more pressing concern; her eyes widened with alarm, she dropped the blank scrap of paper and patted frantically at her blouse pockets. "My _angreal!_ Where..?" She scanned the floor, kicking at the rug so see if the dark jewel had fallen at her feet.

"Are you looking for _this_ , Shadowsworn witch?"

Both Irmilla and Rashiel stared at Raab. In the hand not brandishing the sword, he held the heart-shaped _angreal_. He smiled his most insolent smile, tossing the large jewel up into the air and catching it. "Compliments of Clan Takana!" he shouted, "now _die_ , Daughter of the Sands!" Raab leapt forward, inexpertly attempting to stab Irmilla. At the same time, he hissed; " _catch!_ " to Rashiel, and the dark jewel- _angreal_ bounced off her chest and fell to the rug in front of her.

Irmilla recovered from her surprise and dismay quickly enough to channel viciously; powerful flows of Air ensnared Raab a step away from her, hurling him back to hit the wooden wall behind with enough force to shake the whole hut. He slumped to the floor and lay still, the sword slipping from his hand… and Rashiel found that she could move again, the weaves ensnaring her wrists and ankles were gone. She swiftly snatched up the _angreal_ and rose… but her attempt to draw _saidar_ failed, revealing that she was still Shielded. Irmilla had not let the block dissipate, as she had with the bonds of Air. Rashiel's eyes flicked toward Raab's still form, lying supine by the wall. She very much hoped that he was not dead… what he had done had been brave, very brave. When Rashiel returned her gaze to Irmilla, the Darkfriend was now staring directly at her, dread purpose in her dark eyes.

" _Forget_ stilling," Irmilla snarled, "I have had a change of heart, White Tower trollop! I am going to tear out your soul and present it to the Great Lord of the Dark as a plaything! But first, I will- ahhh!" Irmilla stumbled back, tears of pain staining her cheeks, a hand clutched to her upper arm where blood ran freely down to her wrist from a deep wound… in which there was now embedded Rashiel's marriage-knife! "You stabbed me!" Irmilla sobbed, as she hesitantly plucked the small blade from her arm, dropping it to the floor, "it _hurts!_ "

"You always were a big cry-baby!" Rashiel observed contemptuously, giving Irmilla a hard shove, sending her tumbling back to land on the rug, winded and in considerable pain, with any luck. "Tatty old thing, eh? I'm only supposed to use the marriage-knife on my _husband_ if he displeases me, but in _your_ case I was glad to make an exception!"

Rashiel then struck at the Shield imposed on her with all the strength she could muster; the block promptly tore asunder and the sweet power of _saidar_ flowed into her, magnified considerably by the _angreal_ gripped in her hand. In a flash, she channeled at Irmilla, imposing her own Shield on the Darkfriend. Irmilla gasped and scrambled to her knees, a bloodstained hand still clutched to her wound, staring up at Rashiel with the eyes of a cornered, frightened animal.

Rashiel smiled down at her coldly. "Now, Irmilla dear… where were we?"

* * *

Red-eyed Cohradin, temporarily of the _Sovin Nai_ , disparagingly flicked blood from the stiffened fingers of his striking-hand, whilst glaring contemptuously at the Shadowrunning Sea Folk over by the wooden wall. "They dance a little better than the Dark-loving sailormen we waked in the boat fight, back by the Blight," he commented, "but not much!"

Gerom did not respond, he was moodily examining the bloodstains upon his smallclothes, which he would doubtless remove and wash carefully at the first opportunity. The big Knife Hand – also temporarily – was always most fastidious about the cleanliness of his garments, which Cohradin certainly was not. The borrowed and ill-fitting britches that the Aes Sedai had commanded him to wear were now much besmirched with gore, and torn also.

Cohradin waved tauntingly at the _Atha'an Miere_ pirates, then beckoned, inviting them to come and face him. At his feet lay a dozen of their people, all quite thoroughly dead in the way that only a _Sovin Nai_ could accomplish. There was blood everywhere, and the remaining Shadowrunners did not seem eager to come and avenge their kin anytime soon, but appeared to be waiting for something. Their scowling Chief, the bald Darkfriend who cultivated the company of talking animals (they were strange, these Sea Folk of Shai'tan!) had bellowed an order earlier, though Cohradin had not heard what exactly it was. The command had coincided with one of the loud noises of thunder from the smoky dark thing, which minded Cohradin of the dome of fog that hid the forbidden city of Rhuidean from sight… though blacker and smaller. But getting bigger all the time.

The tattoo-faced Sharaman had gone in there, to face Medelin or Mazri or whatever it was that the lunatic now called himself. Cohradin called him a fool, as he had done since long before the raving Shadowrunner began to channel and went to serve Leafblighter… Wormlover… Cohradin had a score to settle with the former _Sha'mad Conde_ of his Sept. Medelin had spoken insultingly of his goat! Only Cohradin was allowed to do that, and often did… the Shadowrunning Madman would answer for his rude description. Cohradin had threatened to make him eat his own heart, and what he said, he _did!_

Whilst waiting to see what would happen next, Cohradin glanced enquiringly at Gerom. "What is that black and booming thing over there, my brother?" he asked.

Gerom shrugged his broad shoulders, not troubling to look up from his stained smallclothes. "I know not," he muttered, "I am no adept of the Power to hold such knowledge."

Cohradin blinked. Even on those rare occasions when Gerom did not actually possess the information that was requested of him by his near-brothers, he would at least _speculate_. He appeared to be depressed… "What is amiss, Gerom? You seem out of sorts. Does it not feel good, to Dance with the Shadow once more?"

"I suppose…" Gerom mumbled, then frowned at the waiting enemy, "but I would have it otherwise… I wished no more killing, my brother!"

It was now Cohradin's turn to shrug. "It is what we now do, it is what we _are_ … no matter what the Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends intended for us. Let us finish this dance with the Shadowrunning Sea Fools, let us finish _them_ , especially that big, scowling bald fool over there! Afterwards, if we are not Waked from the Dream, we shall put on our robes once more and should we ever return to Wet Sands Hold with the Nightwatcher to show to old Sadora, I shall herd rocks in stead of goats and drink oosquai all day, and you shall be Gai'shain to your books and go back to your precious library… and be known as Gerom the Librarian!"

Gerom looked up, then smiled briefly. "Chassin told you of my wish..?"

"He did."

"Very well." Gerom turned his large head and eyed the Shadowrunners in a way that made some of them take a cautious step back. He flexed his powerful arms, clenching and unclenching massive fists. "Let us go and wake those murderers and thieves, I grow weary of this waiting."

As one, they started forward and the Darkfriend _Atha'an Miere_ raised their weapons, preparing to meet them, though none too enthusiastically, Cohradin noted. These pirates had not faced Aiel before, clearly. Well, he would see to it that they did not do so again! But then, a dozen more Sea Folk Shadowrunners came scrambling over the top of the palisade to form a line along the parapet, pulling short, recurved bows from their backs and nocking barbed arrows.

"Archers!" Gerom warned.

"I am not _blind_ , my brother!" Cohradin protested, adding smugly; "my special red eye sees more better then ever your sludgy green ones could!"

"It is poor grammar to say; 'more better,' Cohradin," Gerom chided.

"Loose!" roared the Darkfriend Chief, whilst waving his axe about foolishly. A deep twang of bowstrings and a small swarm of arrows shot towards them. With the speed of striking snakes, Gerom rolled left and Cohradin right; the feathered shafts failed to hit their targets, flying through the empty space where the Knife Hands had stood. Most probably, the arrows would not miss the next time, and the archers were too far away for the _Sovin Nai_ to reach before they could draw and loose again.

"Follow me!" Cohradin shouted, acting upon an idea that he had been considering whilst waiting for the Shadowrunners to come to them and be waked, and he raced toward the dark and misty dome as another peal of thunder shook the sand beneath his pounding feet. Gerom had longer strides than he, and soon caught up.

"You are going in there?" Gerom queried.

"If we stay out here, we shall surely fall to the cowardly arrows of Shadowrunning sailormen – a fool's death, and dishonourable also! I go to wake Medelin in stead… to wake or be waked trying!"

"He is named 'Mastri' now, and can channel… how will you defeat him?"

"In the way that my ancestor, Mighty Sasaradin, bested the Madman at the water-hole – with guile and with stealth! _Listen_..."

Frowning, Gerom slipped into the fog on Cohradin's heels, attending intently to his Society Leader's whispered plan. It was without doubt the stupidest plan, in a long line of stupid plans, that Cohradin had ever had…

* * *

Raab din Sudim Black Squall blinked open his eyes and groaned, his head aching fit to burst, worse than any hangover ever inflicted upon him by an unwise evening's carousal. Rashiel Sedai was smiling admiringly down at him, which was a rarity in itself. Raab seemed to yet be in her hut, lying upon the threadbare rug… and in the background, he could hear deep, wracking sobs.

"Raab! You're alive!" Rashiel cried loudly, and Raab winced. "Sorry…" she murmured, moderating her volume, then leaned down to kiss Raab firmly upon the lips! " _Mwah!_ You certainly saved the day, you wonderful little liar!"

"Oww…" Raab whined, since Rashiel was leaning against his side and it felt like several of his ribs were broken.

Rashiel did not notice; "why, when you mysteriously disappeared, I assumed that you had run away… faithless me!"

"I thought about it, admittedly," Raab mumbled, "tis why I painted a Waketa tattoo on my chest, using Gen's paints…" He enlarged upon his false story; "I hoped to sneak past the Storm Children, disguised as one of their number, and mayhap steal a boat…"

Rashiel was not listening to this last part in any case, was solely focused on the word; 'paints.' "I did not know Gen had artistic leanings..?"

"Aye. Well, sort of… he paints lewd pictures of you or the Sailmistress… sometimes you _and_ the Sailmistress… nudes… he hides them under his sleeping mat and looks at them when no-one is around!"

Rashiel put a serpent-ringed hand over her mouth, eyebrows raised in alarm. "Oh no! That's _terrible!_ " She chuckled. " _Gen!_ He's dreadful!"

"That he is," Raab agreed absently, considering the _real_ reason he had guised himself as one of the hated Waketa… he wanted to kill a man, had been on his way to do it when he noticed Ruon's buckets outside the Windfinder's hut… _empty_ buckets, when the placid Aielman _always_ returned from the spring with full ones. His suspicions further aroused by the raised female voices within, he had gone to investigate. The rest had been pure improvisation. The background sobbing had meanwhile become a thin wailing. "What is that sad sound?" Raab wondered, doing his best to lie still so as not to disturb his cracked ribs or any other injuries he might have sustained.

"Oh, that is just Irmilla," Rashiel answered casually, turning her head. "Shut-up, Twisty-tongue!" she shouted. Irmilla's wails only increased. Rashiel sighed, turning back to Raab. "Ignore her. The little sneak is only looking for attention…"

Raab paid little notice. He felt immensely weary, disappointed also… in his current sorry state, he could not now go and fulfil the Bargain that he had made with his cousin Jabal, many years ago, before he was declared outcast from Clan Takana. He had _recognised_ the Sailmaster of the Waketa, after all… the same brute who had led his Storm Children onto the decks of the old _Waverunner_ , the three-masted Skimmer that Raab and Jabal had first served aboard as youths. The Children of the Storm had attacked them in thick fog off the shoals of Tremalking and before the pirates were driven back, many of the Takana crew had fallen. Including Laandra din Sudim White Gull, apprentice Windfinder of their ship, Jabal's betrothed… and Raab's sister.

Raab had loved his sister deeply and never quite recovered from the sight of the Clan Waketa killer cutting her down with his axe. When the opportunity for revenge had diminished with time, he had despaired of ever avenging Laandra and had begun to drink too much, to keep low company, to dice with coin that he did not have… all to try and take his mind off the bad memories that tormented him. It had not worked, had only led him into a downward spiral that culminated with his estrangement from Clan and kin. Jabal had probably never got over it either, though had devoted himself to the sword arts instead… and Raab understood that he had since taken a secret Aes Sedai wife, so at least he had moved on. Raab never had… but if he could only kill the Shadowsworn murderer who had slain his sister, then perhaps her soul would be at peace, even if his was not.

Raab had taken the guise of a Waketa in order to infiltrate their ranks, to get close enough to slay the Storm-cursed Sailmaster, before he himself was killed. It was what Laandra would have wanted…well, probably not, Raab's sister had always been a peaceable girl who detested violence, but he would kill her murderer anyway. He and Jabal had sworn to avenge their kin, and Raab intended to show his cousin that there was at least one oath he could keep. Though it did not seem likely that he would be able to do so now, having been flung against a wall by a Shadowsworn witch, being severely injured in the process…

At this point, Raab unwisely tried to sit up, screamed loudly as his broken ribs protested in agonising fashion, and sank back to the rug.

Rashiel raised her eyebrows. "Oh dear… I forgot to ask if you were injured? Well, clearly you are… hold still and I'll Heal you!"

Raab frowned. He had seen the young Aes Sedai perform this painful service for one of the menacing Mayener Gaidin, as well as various sailors… it had not seemed to be a pleasant experience. "It is quite alright, Windfinder," he said quickly, "I will just bind my ribs up later, I will be fine…"

"Nonsense! You could have internal bleeding… now don't move!"

"Perhaps yon captive Darkfriend witch might Heal me?" Raab suggested desperately, lifting his head cautiously and nodding toward where Irmilla knelt in the corner, head bowed and shoulders shaking as she resumed her deep, wracking sobs.

Rashiel glanced at her prisoner with contempt. "Not likely. She was never very good at Healing either, I recall… and besides, tis a moot point now!"

"How so?" Raab enquired, flinching away from Rashiel's dubious healing hands.

"I _said_ , don't move! What, Irmilla? Why do you _think?_ " Rashiel turned to the sobbing Darkfriend, smiling vengefully. "Won't you tell Raab why you can't Heal him, Irmilla?" No response came, the sobbing continued, Irmilla's head lowered almost to the rug, her arms, one of which was bandaged, clasped tightly about herself. "She planned to do it to me," Rashiel confided to Raab, "so it seemed only fitting, when the boot was on the other foot, to do likewise. What goes around, comes around." Rashiel paused for dramatic effect, while Irmilla ceased sobbing and began to wail again, then revealed; "I _stilled_ her."

* * *

The Samma N'Sei Mastri, once Medelin, _Sha'mad Conde_ of the Wet Sands Shaido, stood at the centre of the dark and unquiet dome he had created from all five Powers, though primarily Air and Water, with a lesser amount of Fire added for the lightning. Those outside; the foolish servants of the Light whom he would wake from their false Dream ere long, as well as the equally foolish Sea Folk who served the Great Lord, whom he also planned to wake now that he no longer needed them to bring him to this place… presumably, they had no idea what the roiling apparition of storm and thunder he had summoned actually _was_. But that was quite alright, since he did not know either! It was simply one of the things that the Masked Man had shown to him, when he visited his dreams. There was a place for Mastri within the ranks of this Fox-masked Madman's followers, it seemed… but the Eye Blinder had his orders, from Ishamael himself, in this regard. The Masked Man had apparently betrayed the Shadow, long ago. He must die. And that would only be the beginning of his troubles!

A low groan came from nearby. Mastri glanced without interest at the young Sharan channeler with the tattooed face who lay on the blood-soaked sand a few paces away. The blood was not all his own. The Ayyad youth had been strong, had attacked bravely, even taking Mastri by surprise when he wove that keen blade of Air and cut off his hand… but in the end, all to no avail. Mastri might be Samma N'Sei now, but he was yet _Aiel_. No-one was better at killing than they, and no Aiel were deadlier than the Shaido! Not that his Sharan foe was exactly dead… not yet, anyway. But he was close enough to waking from his own particular nightmare. The ragged, red hole in the left side of his face, the empty socket where his eye had been, was actually the lesser of his wounds, though looked the most severe.

Next to him lay Mastri's severed hand, in a pool of blood… the Eye Blinder – he had certainly lived up to his name in this wise! – did not like to look at the appendage that had once been attached to the blackened, scorched stump at the end of his right arm, but could not bring himself to pick it up and cast it away. Besides, he was already holding something in his sole remaining hand… Mastri held it up to gaze upon it again. Balanced on his palm; a bloodshot eye with a very dark iris looked up at him. Mastri stared at the Sharaman's eye for a long moment, then impulsively popped it into his mouth, chewed once and swallowed with difficulty. It did not taste so bad as he had imagined, but was not particularly pleasant either. Goat's eyes were better, and ideally, should be cooked first.

The youthful Sharan channeler stirred a little, groaned again. Mastri waited patiently. If the Sharaman regained his senses, and then his feet, the duel of Power could continue. If not… well, Mastri had not quite decided what to do with him, yet. Nothing good, though.

"I see you, Mastri who was once Medelin!" rumbled a deep voice. Mastri watched without concern as Gerom, wearing just his smallclothes, came striding out of the fog to stand ten paces away, his placid eyes taking in the unconscious Ayyad youth, the severed hand, and finally Mastri himself. "You have been busy," Gerom further commented.

Mastri ignored this conversational gambit. "I see you, Gerom," he observed in bored tones, adding; "I never liked you when I was back at Wet Sands. Always were you reading your books and using long words that the other _algai'd'siswai_ did not understand!" His voice became angrier; "do you think yourself _better_ than me?!"

Gerom shrugged his wide shoulders. "You are a Shadowrunner now, Mastri who used to be Medelin the Thunder Walker… therefore, not only I but _anything_ is better than you, even a _sorda!_ "

Mastri blinked and thought about this, focusing on one word in particular. "Yes!" he enthused, " _thunder!_ " In answer, the dark dome around them trembled and the earth shook as further storm-sounds resounded throughout. "Truly do I walk with the thunder now!"

"And I thought it but a boastful name," Gerom commented, with some irony.

"I am _not_ boastful!" Mastri insisted, then hesitated, "well, not _that_ much… not so much as Cohradin is!"

"This is certainly true," Gerom agreed.

"Where is that one-eyed fool, anyway?"

"He was waked by the Pirate Chief."

" _Good!_ Though I would that I had ended his pitiful existence myself. And Chassin? I am surprised to not see the stunted lizard-hunter at your side, Gerom!"

"Chassin went away in a boat and has not returned," Gerom answered.

Mastri sneered. "I tire of this! Your dull chatter makes me forget my bold plans!" He raised his remaining hand, preparing the weaves that would destroy Gerom. "Anything to say before I wake you, big book-obsessed fool that you are?"

Gerom shrugged again. "Just a question, Mastri who once was _Sha'mad Conde_ of Wet Sands… do you not wonder why I came here to speak with you?"

Mastri considered briefly. "Not particularly… oh very well then, _why?_ "

Gerom smiled faintly. "To _distract_ you, of course."

Mastri's brow furrowed. "To distract..?"

A finger tapped Mastri firmly on the shoulder, he turned to see Cohradin standing right behind him, wearing his serious face. Before Mastri could wake the one-eyed Knife Hand, something very hard punched into the left side of his chest, followed by a violent, wrenching sensation. Mastri then found himself lying on his back, gasping for breath, his vision dimming. Distantly, he heard Gerom say; "I cannot believe that _worked!_ "

As his sight faded to blackness, Mastri beheld Cohradin standing over him, grinning savagely and holding something red and dripping in a blood-drenched hand. "Well, Shadowrunner," Cohradin remarked, "I said I would do it… and I did! Now, fool… _eat!_ "

* * *

Aboard the captured Darkfriend ship, anchored out beyond the reef, Roth Blucha, Journeyman Gleeman, leant upon the rail of the forepeak, training the telescope he had found on the quarterdeck upon the land. It was difficult to tell what was going on; after the rain of fire had ended, the smoky dome had appeared and the thunder had begun to sound… but that was about all he knew.

Roth shifted the spyglass from the actual camp to the area immediately in front of it. The only movement there came from the phalanx of Warders and sailors led by the peculiar Naythan Shieldman, finally reaching the stockade. They had been delayed on their way up the beach by sporadic attacks from scorched Sea Folk survivors, and the fighting had been fierce. The forces of the Light lingered a moment before the shattered gateway, now quite comprehensively blocked by the roiling, lightning-streaked fog, clearly unwilling to enter it… very wise of them, Roth considered, such bizarre phenomena should be roundly avoided.

Roth could see Master Shieldman turn to shout orders at his men, waving his sword for emphasis. Roth's eyes were weak but there could be no mistaking that long, white hair or compact, muscular frame. He shook his head pityingly… an unusual fellow, this Naythan Gaidin, extremely capable when it came to the martial skills, but sadly deluded! Why, he actually seemed to believe that he came from the Age of Legends, that he had slept in a _box_ for several thousand years… absurd! Doubtless, as a boy the other children had cruelly made fun of his odd eyes, his strange ears, and he had invented such grandiose stories to boost his self-esteem…

But for Master Shieldman and the Aiel, who headed directly for the gate, the company then split into a pair of groups, going west and east, circumventing the danger, their intention obviously being to invest the camp from two directions at once.

"A pincer movement," Roth commented sagely, "very wise of them… tis what I should have advised…"

Roth lowered the spyglass, sliding the telescopic brass barrels shut, his brow furrowed, worried about Ysmet… he really ought to be over there with the others, defending his wife from harm, though this protection usually went the _other_ way. But secretly, Roth was very glad that he was not ashore, taking part in the fighting… a battle was no place for a fragile yet gifted Gleeman, particularly one of his poor constitution and delicate sensibilities. Besides, he had been given the important duty of watching over their prize, this fine, twin-masted… whatever it was. The Sea Folk had far too many names for their differing kinds of ship. Roth yet felt a little queasy, but not near so sick as he had been aboard that wretched, rocking, pitching longboat… the deck beneath his boots was noticeably firmer, for which he fervently thanked the Creator.

Roth awkwardly descended the ladder to the main-deck, making his way towards what he believed was termed the 'stern' of the ship, though there did not seem to be anything particularly stern about it. He picked his path carefully amongst the various dead _Atha'an Miere_ Darkfriends that he lacked the strength to throw overboard, the brightly tattooed bodies sprawled about, lying in their own blood. Roth averted his eyes from a particularly gruesome corpse, the brutal Lord Dagnon's work no doubt, and so managed to trip upon the splayed legs of a dead Sea Folk youth, stumbling a couple of steps before recovering his balance. The young fellow then proved himself to be not quite dead yet, by groaning softly.

Roth stared at him in consternation. He had obeyed his orders prior to this by putting three mortally injured Shadowsworn sailors – one of them a woman – out of their misery, and had not enjoyed the onerous task one bit… but evidently, he would not have to do so again, this particular unfortunate clearly did not have long left. Roth examined the youth, slumped back against the rail, a long knife fallen from one tattooed hand… the Gleeman kicked it out of reach, just in case. The young Darkfriend's face had the waxy look of one not long for this world, and the deep wound in his Stingray-tattooed chest bubbled gore at a steady rate. He groaned again, blinking open blood-encrusted eyes, slowly focusing on Roth, standing over him and rubbing his hands together nervously.

"Would you like a drink of water?" Roth enquired. Well, it was the best that he could do, under the circumstances… he was a Gleeman, not a hedge-doctor!

The Sea Folk youth ignored the question, or perhaps he had not heard, licking his rather blubbery lips prior to speaking. "You… are… the Gleeman…" he rasped, with some difficulty.

Roth was uncertain if this was a question or a statement, but nodded in the affirmative, raising a corner of his cloak and fluttering the patches upon it for corroboration.

"Roth… Blucha…"

"You have heard of me?" Roth exclaimed, delighted that even amongst Shai'tan-serving murderous Sea Folk brigands, his fame was acknowledged!

The dying youth tried to nod, but could not manage it. Instead, he fumbled his fingers into the pocked of his striped trews and, after a few failed attempts, managed to draw out a folded sheet of parchment. He tossed it onto the deck at Roth's feet. While he was doing this, Roth had been gazing upwards, considering that he really should lower the horrid pirate flag and replace it with something nicer. Then he would look for the galley… he was _starving_ … Glancing down, Roth noticed the parchment and cautiously, in case it was a trick, stooped to retrieve it. Standing, Roth unfolded the wrinkled and bloodstained sheet, beholding a familiar florid scrawl covering it… his own!

"My verse!" Roth cried, gratified. He had not expected to see this missive again. Then, his face fell as something occurred to him… something worrisome, in fact. "You found the bottle?" he asked the mortally wounded young Darkfriend.

"Aye… that we did…" the Shadowsworn pirate's bloodstained mouth twisted with difficulty into a cruel smile, "it led… us here…"

Roth blinked, and considered the ramifications, foremost of which was… "Ysmet's going to _kill_ me!" he moaned.

The Sea Folk youth attempted to laugh, but coughed wrackingly instead, blood spilling from his mouth. He would undoubtedly be dead soon, not even an Aes Sedai's Healing might save him now. When he could finally speak again, he whispered; "Gleeman… come closer…" Reluctantly, Roth knelt on the deck, trying to keep his britches clear of the sticky gore puddled upon it. "Closer…" Roth's eyes narrowed with suspicion and he kept a firm grip on the hilt of his poniard, should the Darkfriend attempt treachery or murder… or both… but the young fellow in his dying state could surely not kill a fly? Against his better judgement, Roth moved his ear nearer to the bloody mouth of his enemy.

"These are the… the _last_ words… of Kivan din Rieta… Stingray…" The youth fell silent and Roth wondered if he had died… but then, he raised his head slightly and in louder tones, continued; "Roth… Blucha… before I die… I would have you… to know…" the dying Shadowsworn _Atha'an Miere_ summoned the last of his failing strength and hissed; "you are a… _terrible_ poet! Your rhymes are… _obvious!_ The meter is… _poor!_ " He sucked in a final, ragged breath. "You have… _no talent!_ " Then, the young Clan Waketa Darkfriend's head fell back, and he spoke no more, his dark eyes staring sightlessly.

Roth rose, frowning. "Tsk! _Everyone's_ a critic!"

* * *

 **Act Three – Endgame**

"Now, _that_ is something I have never beheld before," N'aethan commented softly; "and I thought that I had seen _everything!_ " His strange eyes examined the swelling dome of roiling black mist, the jagged lightning that forked across its surface. Whatever it was, it was undoubtedly woven of _saidin_. Perhaps the Laughing God was within? But Jabal Lionfish had told him that these savage attackers were named 'Storm Children…' and this _was_ a storm, was it not? Appropriate…

To either side of N'aethan, Manda and Chassin waited patiently, light eyes glaring fiercely above black veils. N'aethan had sent half of the sailors, commanded by Lord Thaeus with the Twins as his lieutenants, west around the stockade. The other half, under Jabal Gaidin with Dagnon Gaidin and the Bosun as his subordinates, east. N'aethan hoped that they would find more than just corpses within the camp. On their way up the beach, they had encountered several of these 'Clan Waketa' brigands, and the pirates had put up a respectable struggle before they were killed, despite being burned or otherwise wounded. N'aethan had not taken part in the fighting, he had not needed to, contenting himself with shouting orders and warnings.

"Well, let us go and slay this _Souvraniene_ , whoever he may be," N'aethan suggested and, touching his Shield- _ter'angreal_ for luck, strode forward into the dark and thunderous fog. The pair of Aiel walked beside him without hesitation. A final hollow boom shook the sand beneath their feet… and then; no further thunder sounded, the attendant lightning ceased also. The mist already seemed thinner, insubstantial, as it slowly began to dissipate. N'aethan blinked. Up ahead, before the shattered gateway in the palisade, he saw Gerom wearing just his bloodied smallclothes, looming over a squatting Cohradin, clad in gory, filthy britches. A dead Da'shain garbed in the _cadin'sor_ lay between them, pale eyes staring up at a sun partially occluded by swirling black mist. There was a ragged hole in the left side of his chest and Cohradin was vigorously pushing what was unmistakeably the deceased man's _heart_ against his cold lips!

"Go on," Cohradin was urging, " _eat it_ , Shadowrunner!"

Gerom was disapprovingly shaking his large head back and forth. "Cohradin, I do not think…" he noticed his fellow _algai'd'siswai_ and nodded to them. "I see you, Chassin. I see you, Manda." His eyes moved to N'aethan and he frowned slightly. " _Vron'cor_ , you have toh to us! You spoke falsehoods concerning-"

"Yes, I _know_ , Gerom! _Everyone_ has told me this! _Repeatedly!_ I shall atone for my lie in due course, but right now we have more important matters that… that…" N'aethan's gaze strayed back to Cohradin, who had not noticed them yet and was continuing to try to shove the non-beating heart into the corpse's mouth. "Uh… what is Cohradin _doing?_ "

Gerom shrugged his broad shoulders. "Besides being habitually foolish? He is attempting to feed to the dead Darkfriend channeler his own heart."

"I can see that! But… the _Souvraniene_ is _dead!_ "

"Cohradin cares not. He said-"

"I said I would and so I will!" Cohradin growled, rising and facing them. He scowled darkly at N'aethan, pointing an accusing, bloodstained finger. "So, we Aiel were mighty warriors in the Age of Legends, Nightwatcher? Hah! So, we fought for the Aes Sedai in the War with the Shadow? Pah!"

"Cohradin…"

"So, we were fearsome and renowned fighters, _Vron'cor?_ Bah!"

"Shut-up, Cohradin! I have _toh_ to you, alright?!"

"So, we Aiel used to have big-"

" _Tsag!_ You have made your damned _point_ , Cohradin! Foolish Da'shain! Why are you trying to stuff that heart into the mouth of what I presume to be a dead _souvraniene?_ "

"I already _told_ you, because I said I would!"

"And if you said that you could fly, would you jump off that cliff up there whilst flapping your arms?" N'aethan demanded.

"Probably!"

N'aethan sighed, shaking his head slowly. "I have tried to feed a Myrddraal its own heart a few times," he confided, "trust me; it _cannot_ be done!"

Cohradin thought about it, then frowned. "Very well." Unconcernedly, he tossed the heart away, wiping his hand carelessly on his filthy britches.

"You are a big _idiot_ , Cohradin!" Manda observed, scathingly.

Cohradin ignored her, eyeing Chassin. "It is well to see you, my brother. Did you free the captive Aes Sedai?"

Chassin shook his head curtly, scowling. "We did not. They were already gone by the time we got there." His pale green eyes moved over Cohradin and Gerom, taking note of their bloodstained hands and minor flesh-wounds. "Do you return to the Dance, my brothers?" he asked hopefully, "will you cease your foolishness, wear the _cadin'sor_ and once more take up the spear?"

"I shall not, Chassin," Gerom answered stubbornly, "I made promise to the Aes Sedai, Rashiel Tamor, to resume the white robe of the Gai'shain when the battle is done."

"No you won't!" Cohradin declared smugly.

Gerom glanced at the red-eyed Aiel suspiciously. "Why not?"

"Because I _burned_ your foolish white robe when you were not looking… now, you shall have to be Da'tsang, as I… we will find you the more honourable black robe to wear, when I resume mine own…"

"No, you will not," Gerom pointed-out, "for I burned your absurd black gown when _you_ were not looking!"

Chassin and Manda found this amusing and guffawed loudly, shaking their spears in the air, whilst Cohradin and Gerom stared at each other challengingly over the corpse of the Aiel _Souvraniene_ … N'aethan observed them all, speechlessly. The Da'shain had always seemed a bit strange to him when he was growing up, their pacifistic mode of life antithetical to his own, violence-tinged existence… but compared with these more contemporary specimens, they Aiel of his times seemed in retrospect the picture of normalcy. He was about to demand that the Shaido recall their duty… but then the earth beneath them began to tremble and shake.

"Earthquake!" shouted Manda, experiencing difficulty keeping her feet.

The others were in similar straits, except for N'aethan, who stood stock still, legs braced, staring with eldritch eyes at the flare of Power emanating from the dark-skinned youth who had just sat upright on the sand. With all the nonsense about hearts and robes, N'aethan had not noticed him until now… he pointed. " _Not_ an earthquake… it's _him!_ _He_ is doing it!" The young man was clutching his skull with both hands as though trying to prevent his head from exploding, his teeth bared in a rictus of insane fury, flashing whitely in a dusky, heavily tattooed face. His left eye was missing; just a red, weeping hole where it once had been.

"That is Hamadi, Ayyad channeler of Shara!" Gerom shouted in explanation, wobbling on his powerful legs as the earth tremors steadily increased in force.

"Is he on _our_ side?" N'aethan demanded.

" _Yes!_ " confirmed Cohradin, "a useful fellow!"

"Then I shan't kill him unless I have to," N'aethan growled, striding over to Hamadi whilst digging something out of his belt pouch. As N'aethan approached, the maniacal youth stared up at him with his sole eye… the quake lessened in power as the Shield- _ter'angreal_ did its work, disrupting his _saidin_ flows with its proximity.

The snarl faded abruptly from Hamadi's face as he gaped at N'aethan. " _Animal Spirit?_ " he enquired in what was unmistakeably the ancient language of the Easterlings, " _another one?_ "

N'aethan did not immediately reply, but swiftly clapped a bronze torc about the young man's neck. At once, the earth ceased to shake and relative calm returned to those dark, tattooed features. N'aethan nodded, satisfied. The torc was a _ter'angreal_ , he had taken it from one of the Laughing God's followers near to the Dragon College… a channeling, red-masked villain, whom he had killed. He had suspected that the bronze device might protect the wearer from the chaotic effects of the Dark One's Taint; it seemed that this was the case…

" _Have you been channeling for long, young fellow?_ " N'aethan asked Hamadi, in the youth's own exotic tongue.

Hamadi gasped. " _You know the civilised speech!_ " he exclaimed, gratified.

" _Yes, Father made me learn it. Been channeling long?_ "

" _About a year, Spirit…_ "

" _Has anything like this happened before?_ "

" _Like what?_ "

" _The earthquake._ "

" _What earthquake?_ "

N'aethan sighed. " _Just wear the torc-ter'angreal, alright?_ " he told Hamadi, " _don't take it off, even in the bath!_ " He laughed, an odd, mewling sound. " _Hopefully, it will prevent you from Breaking the World once again, all on your own!_ "

Hamadi raised his eyebrows, running a hand over the whorled ridges of the torc encircling his neck, then nodded hesitantly. N'aethan helped him to his feet where he stood, swaying slightly. " _My head hurts_ ," he reported, then touched a wondering finger to the edge of the empty socket in his heavily-tattooed face. " _My eye! It is gone! I thought that things looked different…_ "

N'aethan grinned. " _Not to worry, I have something back on the boat that will serve to replace it…_ "

Hamadi looked at him hopefully. " _You can use your magickal arts to restore my eye to me, Honoured Spirit?_ "

" _Well… I wouldn't go quite that far…_ " N'aethan turned to Cohradin, who was moodily kicking the dead _Souvraniene_ whilst the other Shaido watched with disapproval. "Cohradin! Come here!" Cohradin strode over to them, looking sulky. N'aethan pointed at the _seia'dor_ optical-implant set in the Aielman's scarred right socket. " _One of these, you see?_ "

Hamadi looked doubtful. " _My woman will probably not like it,_ " he muttered.

Cohradin interpreted N'aethan's meaning correctly and grinned, his mood changing with the usual alarming rapidity. "We shall be eye-brothers, Sharaman!" he enthused, "the enchanted eye is a fine gift, you will find! Worthy of a Hero, which we both are, Ayyad! (Though myself more so than you, naturally.) You may see far with your new red eye, far indeed… and at _night_ , too!"

" _What did the gruesome barbarian say, Spirit?_ " Hamadi asked. N'aethan translated. Hamadi nodded thoughtfully, his remaining dark eye moving to the corpse of the Aiel Madman. " _Ah, so the monster is indeed slain… good! I would that I had done it, but he was too strong and overcame my attacks with his evil and unholy Power, but for the first when I took him by surprise and cut off his hand…_ " Hamadi's abbreviated gaze shifted to the severed article in question and he nodded again, satisfied. " _Yes, there it is. It angered my adversary when I did that, and he then swatted me, like a fly! I do not really recall what happened after…_ " he glanced at N'aethan enquiringly; " _did you kill the monster, Spirit?_ "

N'aethan shook his head. " _Not I. Certainly, I was going to, but did not get here in time. The grinning, one-eyed Da'shain did the necessary deed. His name is 'Cohradin,' incidentally._ "

" _Cohradin, yes. But how did he accomplish this feat? He cannot channel!_ "

" _I have no idea. But while Cohradin is terrible at most things, he is very good at killing. As are you, it would seem. That Fire Rain was your doing?_ "

" _Is that what it is called? Yes, I did that._ "

" _Spectacular! But you did not know its name? Who taught you this weave?_ "

" _No-one… it just came to me, popped into my head, I know not from where… we needed to stop the attack of the sea-barbarians and that seemed the best way._ "

" _Necessity is a fine incentive for invention…_ " N'aethan shrugged. " _In any case, we may need your fiery services when we go to rescue the Aes Sedai._ "

" _And Dara!_ "

" _Yes, her too, of course._ " N'aethan had no idea who this 'Dara' might be, but he was sure that they would have time to compare notes on the voyage south. Hamadi swayed a little and N'aethan placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. " _You have had a hard time of it, young fellow… you had best sit down again._ " He helped ease Hamadi back to the sand, where the youth sat cross-legged, looking exhausted.

" _Thank you, Spirit._ "

" _I am not a Spirit._ "

" _What are you, then?_ "

N'aethan grinned, baring sharp teeth. " _A Cat-Demon! Sssss!_ " He laughed again, whilst Hamadi looked up at him uncertainly. N'aethan turned to the Shaido. "Manda, please to go back to the longboat and fetch my bag full of things that I brought from out of Father's Hold." Manda nodded and ran fleetly back down the beach. N'aethan addressed the Knife Hands; "I go to take stock of the camp, _Sovin Nai_. If there are any more earthquakes while I am gone, hit Hamadi over the head with something hard, but try not to actually kill him!" They nodded solemnly. N'aethan lingered a moment, eyeing Cohradin and Gerom critically. "You appear to be undressed, Da'shain! We shall need to find you some _cadin'sor_."

Gerom refuted this with a determined shake of the head. "I am sworn to Peace in Battle now, _Vron'cor_."

"And I am Da'tsang!" Cohradin declared defiantly and with obscure pride.

N'aethan frowned, puzzled. "Cohradin, I am aware that nearly everyone with whom you interact ultimately ends up _despising_ you, but is it really necessary to make that unfortunate character trait into some sort of a _title?_ "

Cohradin scowled. "For me, it is a mark of honour, Nightwatcher," he explained stolidly, adding; "and I am _not_ despised by all! There are many amongst the Aiel who appreciate my warm personality, generosity and amusing jests!"

"Like Sulin of the Taardad," Gerom observed innocently. Chassin sniggered. Cohradin glared at them both.

"We shall all convene later," N'aethan declared, "and then I shall atone for my lie, by speaking of your lost origins… I will finally tell you Da'shain Aiel the _Truth_."

* * *

Jabal din Sudim Lionfish was the first up the rope which the wave-cursed Children of the Storm had thoughtfully left trailing down the side of the palisade for him to climb, swarming up hand over hand as he had as a boy, when first sent aloft to set and reef sail. Those had been fine times on the old _Wavedancer_ , he and his cousins learning the art of sailing the salt. At least, until… Jabal scowled. The bad fight off Tremalking, the death of his beloved… the work of the despised pirates of Clan Waketa, the Shadowsworn Storm Children. He was _glad_ that their paths had crossed again, he would slay every one that he could find. His dearest wish, in fact, was to one day lead a fleet of the Takana and perhaps some of the other Sea Folk Clans to the Smoking Islands and roust the vile Waketa from their hidden ports and bolt-holes, wipe them all out and finally obliterate the shame of their very existence from the annals of the _Atha'an Miere_.

Before going to the White Tower, Jabal had oft mentioned this plan to his mother, a prominent Sailmistress of their Clan, until she angrily told him not to. When she had been elected Wavemistress of Clan Takana, Jabal had sent several letters to her on the subject, but they had been ignored. All Korilla din Sudim Tidal Wave really cared about was the silk trade… and occasionally, Jabal's father. Revenge was notoriously bad for business, as she was fond of pointing-out.

Vaulting nimbly over the hoarding and crouching upon the parapet, Jabal drew his sword, eyeing it critically. The quality of the steel was good enough, but the blade was too long and of the sort he was unused to, curved and not straight. Jabal frowned with annoyance. He wanted his _own_ sword back, almost as much as he wanted _Renn_ back! The thieving Kor would _pay_ for appropriating a valuable heirloom of Clan Takana, atone with his miserable life! Though this weapon was less lengthy than the Power-wrought one he had taken from a dead enemy in the Castle of the Hawx… that sword he had presented to Blaek Gaidin when they were reunited on the beach. The Twins had thanked Jabal profusely, ecstatic that they now _both_ had these rare, antique blades, and would no longer be required to argue over who retained possession of the sole Power-forged sword in their possession… though they would doubtless find other things to squabble about. Jabal had always found the Twins strange, even compared with most Shorebound, but they were good friends of his, so he had been glad to see them yet living, in the midst of what had clearly been a bloody battle.

Jabal noted that there were a couple of dead sailors lying on the parapet, feathered with the cruel, barbed arrows favoured by the Waketa, another defender's corpse sprawled on the sand below, impaled on a javelin. Lord Dagnon joined him, keeping low in case of further arrows, sliding his Heron-mark blade from its sheath.

"Where is everyone?" Dagnon enquired.

Jabal pointed. "There."

The remaining Storm Children surrounded one of the wooden huts below, the largest one; about a score of the Waketa, all that were left. Even as they watched, a crossbow-bolt shot from one of the small windows and slammed into the chest of an attacker, sending the Darkfriend _Atha'an Miere_ pirate flying back several paces to land in the sand, twitching. Several of his fellows were grouped around the doorway of the hut, which appeared to be barricaded, trying to break their way in with axes. A slim, steel blade lunged out and took a Shadowsworn Sea Folk woman in the eye; she collapsed, shrieking. A big, brutish axeman with a shaven skull kicked her out of the way. "Fetch fire-brands!" he roared, "we'll burn them out!"

"That stabbing blade looked to me like the Lady Ysmet's rapier," Dagnon commented, "it would seem that she yet lives… as does Rashiel, I can _sense_ her!"

Jabal did not respond, did not even hear. " _Him!_ " he snarled furiously, glaring at the big axeman, then promptly dropped down inside the camp and began to run with fatal intent toward the burly Darkfriend, the leader of these brigands… as the same Waketa pirate had led those who stormed the decks of the _Wavedancer_ , many years before. "I am coming for you, Son of the Sands!" Jabal yelled fiercely, and heads turned amongst the mob surrounding the large hut, noting his approach warily. Jabal grinned savagely. The Creator had been very good to him, this day… his vengeance was _finally_ at hand!

* * *

The Lord Dagnon do Avriny a'Vrois, former Hunter of the Horn and currently clandestine Warder of the White Tower, watched in surprise and perturbation as his Sea Folk friend and comrade hared off toward the enemy, attacking on his own… well, he certainly did not seem to care for these Darkfriend _Atha'an Miere_. During the brief fight when they took the ship, Jabal Gaidin had been extremely keen to slay the foe, had even shoved Dagnon out of the way at one point, so that _he_ could claim the kill! An offence that might well have been considered a duelling matter, back in Murandy… but Warders of the Tower did not fight one another, except with wooden weapons. But for the obvious exception of the civil strife during the black day of the coup, naturally. Besides, Dagnon was willing to overlook the rudeness, given the undoubted insult that these Storm Children represented to the Sea Folk… a shame that Jabal clearly wished to see expiated. It was depressing to think that those who swore oath to the Shadow existed in all realms of humanity, in every land and nation… and even upon the seas. The evil influence of the Father of Lies seemed all-pervasive.

The Bosun's dark face appeared over the top of the stockade beside Dagnon; he had climbed the rope one-handed, digging his hook into the logs of the palisade to further his progress. "Where's the Sea Folk Warder off to?" he wondered.

"He is passing eager for the fray!" Dagnon explained, "I go to join him… follow with the men as fast as ever you may, Boatswain!"

"Aye-aye, milord," the Bosun agreed laconically as he scrambled onto the parapet, touching his hook to the front of his odd, three-cornered hat. "Come on, you scuttling swabs!" he shouted down to the climbing sailors.

By this, Dagnon had dropped to the sand below and was sprinting toward the fighting. Beyond; he could see Lord Thaeus and the Twins atop the westernmost wall of the stockade, being joined by more sailors armed with an assortment of weaponry. Dagnon waved his sword at Thaeus, and the young Amadici Lord raised his own in response; a pair of Heron-mark blades flashing in the waning sunlight.

On the way to the Captain's hut where the defenders of the camp were making their last stand, Dagnon passed the lightning-infused dome of blackness that blocked the gateway, and he took care to not get too close to it. He had no idea what it was, and did not wish to know. The One Power was a disturbing factor in any eventuality, a battle most of all. But a particularly loud boom of thunder drew Dagnon's attention back to the dome and he noted that the lightning strikes had now ceased, that the roiling fog had begun to disperse. He was unsure if this was a good thing or not…

Up ahead, Jabal Gaidin was engaged in enthusiastically cutting the head from a Storm Child; two additional opponents lay at his feet in pools of their own blood, but a dozen more were closing on him. As much as Jabal detested the brigands of Clan Waketa, for their part, they clearly did not care for the Sea Folk Clans who served the Light either, if their hate-filled features were any indication. A slender, wiry _Atha'an Miere_ woman leapt high as Jabal turned to meet her, golden nose rings glinting, a boarding-axe raised in each tattooed hand. "Die, Takana fish-bait!" she screamed, wild with blood-lust. Jabal promptly dropped to one knee, raised his sword and spitted his attacker upon it neatly. She died without a sound, rolling to the side in a welter of gore, axes slipping from her nerveless fingers… Jabal yanked at the long blade, trying to loose it from the corpse of his enemy, but it was caught on bone and muscle, refused to pull free.

A pair of Waketa fighters leapt at Jabal from either side as he struggled with the hilt. "Bloody Shorebound blade!" he bellowed furiously, appreciating the danger of his situation… but then, Dagnon slipped in to cleave the skull of one attacker with the sword-form Cataract in the Mountains, before pivoting smoothly to stab the other in the heart, utilising Striking Blacklance. He then yanked Jabal to his bare feet.

"You are supposed to be leading us!" Dagnon reminded his fellow Gaidin loudly, "what do you think you are about, making a one-man charge?"

Jabal was not listening, his dark eyes intently scanning the mob of Darkfriends attacking the hut. Thaeus and his men were ploughing into them from one side and as the Waketa turned to face this new threat, the Lady Ysmet and what remained of her defenders sallied forth from their stronghold to take the enemy in the back.

" _Where is he?_ " Jabal shouted angrily.

"Whom?" Dagnon wondered, as he kept the closest Storm Children at bay with his whirling blade. Crossbow-bolts began to strike the brigands down and glancing behind, Dagnon saw that the Bosun had made his sailors form a fairly straight line so that they could fire volleys into the foe. "Good man!" he called to the Bosun, glad that the fellow understood the rudiments of military tactics.

"There he is, the murdering bilge-rat!" Jabal exclaimed, pointing. Dagnon looked in time to see the leader of the Waketa pirates disappearing between two huts to the south… roaring with rage, Jabal raced off after him.

"But you lack your sword!" Dagnon reminded him. He went unheard. Cursing, he followed as fast as he could. At his back; the remnants of the Storm Children fell to the blades and bolts of the crew of the wrecked _Queen Mab_ , righteous in their wrath. The last of the Waketa went down fighting, and they fought hard.

* * *

The Lady Ysmet stamped and lunged, taking the attacking pirate just below the breastbone with her rapier, then withdrew the point, blood spurting from the deep and mortal wound. The dark Sea Folk woman dropped her short-sword and fell back with a choked gasp. Ysmet turned, seeking further enemies, in time to see the Bosun striking a stocky Darkfriend across his snarling face with the heavy iron-hook that had replaced his lost hand, stunning his opponent and then chopping down with his cutlass, ending the fight. Beyond him, there seemed only Warders and sailors, the brigands were all down on the sand, kicking or still, dying or dead. Silence descended, but for the deep breaths of the exhausted defenders and the moans of the wounded.

Ysmet wiped the blood from her rapier with a square of cloth she kept tucked in her belt for such purposes, then sheathed the slim blade with a deft motion. She inclined her head to the big, dark-skinned Tairen sailor who was grinning at her.

"Bosun." Everyone called him that; Ysmet was aware of the man's real name, but never used it in public out of respect for his privacy. But really; the odd things people called their children!

"Captain," greeted the Bosun, touching his hook to his hat respectfully.

"You all got here just in time," Ysmet observed, "though a little sooner might have been better…"

"Forgiveness, Lady Ysmet," the Bosun muttered, "there was a right forceful rip-tide delayed us coming back down the coast, and then a fair bit of fighting on our way up the beach…"

"Well, you came to our aid in the end, that is the main thing," Ysmet allowed, glancing around at the various weary sailors leaning upon their weapons or each other. Doubtless, they were surprised to yet be alive. She sighed as she made a swift tally of who was left and who was not. "We have lost a lot of shipmates…"

"They knew what they were signing-on for when they agreed to crew the _Queen Mab_ ," the Bosun pointed-out philosophically, "this voyage was always likely going to be a risk…"

"A _risk?!_ " Ysmet spat, "this expedition has turned into a bloody disaster!" Her brown eyes continued to search the crowd, wondering where Rashiel had got to. As well as... "Where is Roth?" she demanded.

The Bosun gestured with his hook out beyond the reef, at the anchored ship. "Your spouse be aboard our prize, Lady."

Ysmet blinked. In the bloody turmoil, she had not noticed until now, but the skull-embroidered flag had been lowered and replaced with what was unmistakeably the fluttering, many-patched cloak of a Gleeman! She smiled, despite her anger at Roth's silly message that had led the pirates here.

"It would seem that Master Blucha has claimed the Darkfriend ship for himself," Lord Thaeus observed as he strode over to them, moving with deadly grace, "or perhaps, for Gleemen in general?"

Ysmet shook her head firmly. "Absolutely not, Lord Thaeus! We are _married_ , Roth and I, and that according to Ebou Dari custom… what's his is also mine… only more so!"

Thaeus bowed fluidly, smiling. "Then it appears that you are Captain of a ship once more, Lady Ysmet."

Ysmet averted her gaze, flushing slightly. It wasn't _fair_ for a man to have a smile like that! It was hard to focus on the enormous amount of important tasks at hand when some ridiculously handsome fellow was flashing his perfect teeth and giving you decidedly impure thoughts into the bargain! But then, duelling or any other form of fighting had always roused her blood, raised her passions, put her in the mood for love-play… as she would shortly demonstrate to her feckless husband! But first things first; command carried responsibility…

"Orders?" the Bosun enquired.

Ysmet collected herself. "Let the men rest, but I need a couple of them to scout around and make sure there are no pirates still lurking in the vicinity…"

"We shall do that, Milady."

"It would be our pleasure."

Ysmet glanced at the attractive Twin Warders, unsure which had said what, though it did not particularly matter. They were decidedly easy on the eye, too…

"Very well Gaidin, I thank you for your assistance… see if you can locate Rashiel Sedai while you're at it."

The Mayener brothers nodded and stalked away, each with a gauntleted hand resting proudly on the hilt of a Power-wrought blade. Ysmet tore her gaze from their decidedly pretty bottoms, a matched pair of posteriors at that, and banished all speculation of what it would be like to bed a brace of identical lovers… something that she and Rashiel had wondered about and giggled over only the night before. Where _was_ that bloody girl? Ysmet sincerely hoped that Rashiel was alright. She turned back to the Bosun, who was waiting patiently for further commands.

"When the men are rested and have had something to eat," Ysmet continued, "form two watches… one to gather firewood, though not from too deep in the forest lest this commotion has attracted the attention of any of the natives…"

The Bosun nodded cautiously and Thaeus looked grim. They both well knew what Ysmet meant by this… not merely savages or cannibals but worse; a Madman might come. It was an ever-present danger in this dread land.

"…then, a second watch to collect our dead and prepare them for funerary rites… I shall need a precise head-count, Bosun."

"The butcher's-bill?" The Bosun nodded. "Aye-aye Captain, I'll take care of it." Ysmet gazed down toward the sea, noting that during the final clash with the enemy, the strange dome of fog and lightning had mostly dissipated. A compact figure was walking towards them through the remaining wisps of mist, long white hair streaming in the wind, a man whom she did not recognise…

"We shall hold the services on the beach tonight," Ysmet declared, her eyes fixed on the approaching stranger as he stepped through the shattered gateway, "a pyre for each of our slain people." The unknown man had a blade sheathed at his belt and was wearing fancloth. A Warder?

"What of the Waketa, Captain?" the Bosun wondered, "do we burn them too?"

"Do what you like with the dead pirates," Ysmet answered distractedly, "the bloody lionfish can have them for all I care." The Bosun saluted with his hook, then moved away. Ysmet pointed at the strange Gaidin, or whatever he was. As he came nearer, she noted that there was something decidedly odd about his eyes. "Do you know that man, Lord Thaeus?"

"Indeed I do." Thaeus raised a hand in greeting and the strange man waved back with a dark gauntlet. "That is my sister's Warder, Naythan Shieldman." He shrugged, lowering his voice as the stranger closed on them; "though to be honest, Lady Ysmet, like his own sister whom you have met, he is not exactly _human_ …"

* * *

Jabal-called-Lionfish raced between the rude, driftwood huts of the camp, dark eyes searching furiously and frantically for the Clan Waketa brute who had murdered his betrothed those many years ago. The fact that he had left his sword behind had since occurred to him, filtering through the red mist of his rage, but Jabal cared not. In the White Tower, Atual Gaidin and other stern, deadly Warders had taught him various ways to kill without any weapons other than one's hands and feet, the martial knowledge adding to that he had already learned from old Caroc, his Clan's Swordmaster. Indeed, Jabal felt that he was spoilt for choice when it came to gaining his revenge on the Shadowsworn Sailmaster whose demise he had long planned.

A forceful kick in the right part of his abdomen would crush various of his internal organs, causing a slow and painful death… though Jabal did not want the Darkfriend to have the benefit of time for any taunting last words. A blow to the bridge of the nose with clenched fist or the heel of the hand would drive the nasal bone into the brain… but that would be far too quick. Jabal frowned. He needed to settle on some sort of median between a fast and slow death… how about..?

" _Aaarghh!_ "

The scream of agony came from a nearby hut, Jabal skidded to a halt in the sand, eyes narrowing. The murderer must be in there… murdering someone! That was what murderers _did_ , after all… it was why they were called that!

Jabal leapt for the doorway of the hut, covered only by a hanging strip of sailcloth, and forward-rolled neatly through to avoid the possible attack of anyone waiting on the other side, springing to his bare feet, ready and willing to do violence. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior.

A pretty girl garbed in a colourful skirt and lace blouse knelt on a threadbare rug, staring up at Jabal in alarm with large, brown eyes that were red-rimmed and teary. She had been injured; a bloodstained bandage wound about her upper arm. A victim of the Waketa, perhaps? "Fear not, I won't harm you," Jabal reassured her.

"You bloody-well _ought_ to harm her, considering that she's an evil Darkfriend murderess," observed a familiar voice, tinged with the musical accents of Ebou Dar.

Jabal whirled around, staring at Rashiel Tamor, sitting cross-legged by the wall, looking extremely weary. In her lap, she was cradling the head of a bare-chested, supine man, his arms and legs moving feebly. "Rashiel Sedai!" Jabal gasped, "I heard a cry of great pain and came to investigate… did you scream?"

Rashiel shook her head, pale eyes moving down to her charge. "Not I. That was Raab…"

Jabal gaped as the slender, dark-skinned man weakly raised his head, lips twisted in an insolent smile that he recalled all-too well. "Cousin!" Raab croaked, "fancy seeing you here… when was our last reunion? Tar Valon, was it not?"

" _You!_ " Jabal shouted, "outclan!" An ivory-hilted short-sword lay discarded on the rug, he snatched it up and sprang forward, blade poised for a death-stroke.

Raab cringed back, eyes wide. " _Wait_ , Jabal, can we not discuss this?"

"No!" Jabal growled, "you betrayed the Takana and near got me executed! I was exiled from the salt and had to train as a Warder of the Tower, all because you-"

" _And_ you met Renn!" Rashiel loudly pointed-out, "your _wife_ , remember? You wouldn't have crossed paths with the love of your life if it hadn't been for Raab!"

Raab raised himself up on his elbows, curious. "You are married now? Even though not invited to the wedding, I extend to you my warmest felicitations, cousin!"

Jabal scowled. "Stick your felicitations where the sun refuses to shine and call me not 'cousin,' renegade! We are no longer kin!"

"Be not so dramatic!" Raab chided, "it ill becomes you…" his brow furrowed, "…Renn? Renn Faltrey? The Aes Sedai to whom I was to deliver the letter..?"

Raab struggled to his feet, Rashiel assisting him. She noted that Jabal still had the sword levelled unwaveringly at his erstwhile cousin and sighed. "Put up your blade, Jabal Gaidin! You can't slay Raab… he is a Hero!"

"A _what?!_ " Jabal spat.

Raab smiled smugly, running a cautious hand over his ribcage.

"Better?" Rashiel asked.

"Aye, Windfinder, though it flaming _hurt!_ "

"Yes, you squealed like a stuck pig! My Healing is always rather painful, I am afraid… except when I cast the weaves on an Aes Sedai, for some reason…"

" _A Hero?_ " Jabal reminded Rashiel, pointedly.

"Yes, of course…" Rashiel pointed to the wide-eyed maiden kneeling upon the rug; " _that_ treacherous harlot intended to give my soul to the Dark One… Raab bravely confounded her wicked plan!"

Jabal blinked, eyed Raab uncertainly. "You did?"

Raab nodded. "Aye, Jabal… I still cannot quite believe it myself, but…"

"Then I shall not kill you just yet, out of respect for Rashiel Sedai," Jabal allowed generously.

"Oh… good." Raab smiled tentatively. "Can I have my sword back, please?"

"No. It is my sword now. The very least that you owe me for the trouble that you have put me to, over the years." Jabal's eyes widened. "The murderer! He is getting away whilst I waste time talking to _you_ , Raab!"

Raab pursed his lips sagely. "I saw him too, he who slew my sister…" his visage grew unaccustomedly grim, "I have sought him long over the years since. I asked around about him, talked to shady types in low places… his name is Duadh din Retif Blue Ring of the Waketa, he titles himself 'Scourge of the Seven Seas…'"

"But there are _eight_ seas!"

"So he can't _count!_ What do you want me to do about it, cousin?"

"I am _not_ your cousin! Just because I have agreed to spare your miserable life for the time being, you should not presume to-"

A tall man abruptly ducked into the hut and Jabal spun, preparing to stab with the short blade – but it was only Dagnon Gaidin, followed by a strange little man with faded tattoos etched into his wrinkled face, who hovered at his side.

"There you are, Jabal!" Dagnon exclaimed, "I feared that-" his piercing blue-eyed stare moved beyond the Sea Folk cousins to Rashiel and his mouth fell open indistinctly beneath curled reddish moustaches. "Rashiel!" The next moment, Jabal and Raab were unceremoniously elbowed aside and Rashiel was flinging herself into Dagnon's arms, kissing him exuberantly. Jabal averted his eyes, as did Raab. The Shorebound had no shame! Public kissing and holding of hands, warm embraces for all to see… was Rashiel Sedai intending to _couple_ with her Warder, right in front of them?! It certainly seemed so… the young Aes Sedai was determinedly dragging the big Gaidin towards their low bed, she already had his sword-belt off and was working on his britches… "Mmff! Wait, Rashiel! I must…"

"Don't you _ever_ leave me again, dearest Dagnon! I was _so_ worried!"

"But… it was _you_ who commanded me to-"

"Shut-up! Stop struggling!"

"I think we had best leave them to it," Raab murmured, grabbing the Darkfriend prisoner by her uninjured arm and yanking her to her feet. "Come along, Shadow-lover… _outside_ …" Jabal followed hastily, closing his ears to the sounds of passion beginning to arise from the bed. He blinked in the brighter light beyond the doorway, though evening was coming on. Raab had found a length of rope and was binding the captive Darkfriend's wrists before her. She made no attempt to resist.

Jabal examined the Shadowsworn captive. Empty eyes, her face slack, as though half-dead already. "What did Rashiel Sedai _do_ to her?" Jabal wondered.

Raab grinned nastily. "The same that the witch threatened _her_ with… the Windfinder cut her off from the One Power."

At this reminder of her stilling, the Darkfriend let her mouth fall open and began to sob loudly, tears running down her cheeks. Jabal frowned. He had no sympathy for those traitors to humanity who served the Stormfather. "I'll gag her," he offered, patting his pockets for something appropriate.

Raab passed him a grubby silk kerchief. "Use this." His dark eyes moved beyond his cousin and narrowed. "Gen!" he shouted. Jabal looked. The peculiar old man, wearing what looked like filthy goatskin britches and shirt, was yet loitering in the doorway of the hut, avidly watching what was going on inside which, judging by the noises that periodically emerged, was of a decidedly carnal nature.

Gen turned his head, eyeing Raab askance. "What?" he enquired, yellowish teeth filed to points flashing in his leathery face.

"Get away from there!" Raab hissed, "if the Windfinder or the Sailmistress catch you spying on them again, they'll likely _geld_ you!" Raab considered. "Which would not be such a bad idea, given your lecherous disposition… why, it might even do you some good!"

Gen's tattooed brow furrowed. "What do 'geld' be?" he wondered, then his expression cleared; "oh, it do be that shiny metal you odd Northlanders do prize…" he looked confused again; "but Raab, you say that if I do watch the beauteous Captain Ysmet and her sultry friend, the good witch Rashiel, a-sporting with their menfolk, they will gift me with _treasure?_ "

"Keep on doing it and you'll assuredly find out!" Raab promised.

Jabal yanked the silk taught between the Darkfriend's bared teeth and pushed her toward Gen. "You… whatever you are… take this prisoner to your Captain."

"We can _hang_ her later!" Raab added, menacingly. On hearing this, the gagged maiden made a moaning sound in the back of her throat, eyes blinking rapidly.

Gen shrugged bony shoulders and produced another length of rope, looping it about the Darkfriend's neck as a rough halter. She shrank away from his touch which, to be fair, was understandable. "Where do you Sea Folks go off to?" Gen wondered.

"To settle with the murdering Waketa, their shaven-skulled leader with the big axe," Raab answered promptly.

"Oh, the Pirate Chief? I seed him, though he did not see me… I were _hiding!_ " Gen pointed south toward the forest; "which he did go _that_ way…" Gen then ambled off toward the gate, tugging the stilled and stumbling Darkfriend witch along behind him on the rope, like a farmer leading a cow to market… or to the slaughter, perhaps.

Jabal shook his head wordlessly, then glanced at Raab, or rather, at what was painted on his chest. "What is that silly gold thing supposed to be, anyway?"

Raab straightened-up, proudly. "A lionfish!"

Jabal shook his head dismissively. "Lionfishes do not look like _that_ … well, except for the _teeth_ , mayhap." He then broke into a run, heading purposefully for the southern palisade and the forest beyond it. Raab appeared at his side, fleetly keeping pace with him. "Where do you think _you_ are going?" Jabal demanded.

"I'm coming with you!" Raab declared.

"No you're not! What use will _you_ be in the coming fight?"

"Very little, considering that you have stolen my sword!"

"As if you even knew how to use it!"

They reached the rear door in the stockade, which stood open. Raab plucked a long knife from his sash, flourishing it. "I know how to use _this_ ," he promised.

Jabal shrugged, then nodded. "Well, the murdering Storm Child cannot have gone far. Let us take our revenge for Laandra!"

"For Laandra!"

The vengeance of the din Sudim cousins was finally at hand. Like most things worth having, it had been a long time coming…

* * *

As he strode into the makeshift camp of the shipwrecked mariners, stepping over numerous corpses and around puddles of gore, N'aethan considered wonderingly that of the many battles of the several wars in which he had fought, this was the very first encounter in which he had shed no blood. None! The opportunity had not presented itself. He had simply given orders and provided encouragement, and the others had taken care of the actual killing. The Aiel, mostly. They lived for it. It surprised N'aethan how good it felt, to have not unsheathed sword (or claws) at any point. But _Tarmon Gai'don_ was coming… there would be much fighting to do in _that_. In the Last Battle, he would doubtless shed _rivers_ of blood, an entire _lake_ of the stuff… but first he had Ellythia Sedai to rescue, as well as her two Aes Sedai friends and this 'Dara,' whoever she might be. And the Laughing God to kill, also.

Up ahead, by the largest hut, Lord Thaeus stood waiting for him, beside a tall, dark woman, beautiful in a severe sort of way. Her cold eyes watched N'aethan closely as he approached, a hand resting on the pommel of the slim blade sheathed at her belt. Around them, various of the surviving sailors sat exhausted upon the ground, the Bosun passing out hard-tack to them. The seamen who had already encountered N'aethan were whispering in the ears of those who had not; all were watching him curiously, to see what he would do.

"Greetings, Naythan Gaidin," Thaeus called out, when N'aethan was but a dozen paces away, "how went the day? Did you slay the Aiel Madman?"

N'aethan shook his head. "Not I. Cohradin did… doubtless, he shall boast to you of his feat should you ask him about it, or even if you do not." Thaeus laughed and N'aethan eyed him surreptitiously. Was there a hint of insanity to his mirth? He could not be sure… "How do you _feel_ , Lord of the Desiamas?" he enquired carefully.

Thaeus' manner sobered. "Well enough," he responded levelly, "like myself."

"Should that situation change, advise me of it," N'aethan urged, "and I shall-"

"Kill me?" Thaeus was perfectly serious, no fear in his eyes, just resignation.

"Nay! Hit you over the head with a stick, tie you up and sit upon you till you calm down!" This time, they both laughed. N'aethan did not trouble to ask why Thaeus had wandered off on his own… clearly, he had not wished to be a danger to his companions. Of course, N'aethan being commanded to look for the errant young man by his Aes Sedai had left she and the others undefended… but Thaeus knew this as well as he did, there was little point in further compounding the guilt he must be feeling. ' _Good intentions so often lead to the Pit of Doom that the path there must be paved with them…_ ' Father had said that, and who better than _he_ to know?

The tall, proudly beauteous woman was staring at N'aethan with what could only be fascination. Thaeus recalled his etiquette and made hasty introductions; "my Lady, I present Naythan Shieldman, Warder to my sister and Hero of the Light… he hails from the Age of Legends…" The Noblewoman's eyes widened slightly and she curtsied gracefully. "Master Shieldman, I give you the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, former Captain of the _Queen Mab_ and current Captain of whatever that ship out there is called…"

"It had _Stormchaser_ painted on the bow," N'aethan murmured, then bowed elaborately, a gloved hand on his hilt, sweeping his fancloth poncho back.

The Lady Ysmet stared at N'aethan for a moment, then blinked, remembering her manners. " _Stormchaser_ is an ill name for a ship," she commented, "I shall think on a new one…"

"How about; _The Light's Revenge?_ " Thaeus suggested eagerly.

Ysmet shook her head fastidiously. "Too Whitecloakish…" Thaeus looked crestfallen. Ysmet smiled and patted his arm in commiseration. "Your talents lie elsewhere, Lord Thaeus. I shall ask Roth to invent something appropriate…" he eyes narrowed, "…my husband has to be good for something!"

N'aethan blinked. " _You_ are the Gleeman's wife, Lady Ysmet?"

Ysmet nodded. "Yes. Why shouldn't I be?" Her eyes narrowed further at N'aethan's hesitation.

N'aethan chose his next words carefully; "it is just that I expected someone more… that is to say, less…" he trailed-off.

Ysmet smiled thinly. "A tavern floozy, perhaps? The sort of woman who might let a scurrilous Gleeman sweep her off her feet?" She shook her head, the long braid she wore her dark hair in whisking back and forth against her shoulders. "Believe me, I am oft surprised to find myself wed to Roth also… but there it is. In spite of everything, I _do_ love him, you see. And who can tell what peculiar paths fate will lead us down?"

"Indeed!" N'aethan agreed, fervently, thinking of some of the strange people and places his own fate had guided him to…

"Tell me, Naythan Gaidin..?" Ysmet noted the two-dozen sailors staring at them curiously whilst shamelessly eavesdropping, and nodded toward the large hut. "Let us repair to my palace and speak further in privacy…" She turned to the Bosun, who was standing nearby. "Is there much rum left in the stores?"

The Bosun nodded. "Aye, Captain, about a barrel-and-a-half."

"Break it out, Bosun… they've earned it." The sailors raised a ragged cheer at this welcome command, whilst N'aethan and Thaeus followed Ysmet into the hut. Within, it was cool and shady, though a dreadful mess; a large bed-frame, much hacked with axes, lay near the door, broken chairs and stools were overturned, and discarded crossbows scattered about. A lumpy mattress on the floor, much stained with blood, was ripped open; mounds of scattered feathers adding to the disorder. Ysmet surveyed the sorry scene, shaking her head in defeat. "There is little point in tidying, I might as well just set the hut aflame and have done with it," she muttered, then brightened as something occurred to her; "besides, I believe that I shall sleep aboard _ship_ tonight!"

"The vessel might be full of Darkfriend things," Thaeus warned, "skulls and bones, whips and chains…"

Ysmet eyed Thaeus with bemusement. "Is that what Whitecloaks look for, when they go searching in Shadowsworn boudoirs?" Thaeus blushed, and declined to answer. "Your concern is duly noted," Ysmet declared, "if there is anything of that nature, I shall have it thrown overboard." She adopted a musing tone; "with any luck, they will be well-found in stores and provisions, since we are running low…"

"Think you there may be some _cheese?_ " asked a cracked voice, hopefully. N'aethan turned to the doorway; a spry old man clad in ill-sewn skins stood there, his wrinkled face decorated with faded ink designs.

"Gen!" Ysmet shouted, " _knock!_ "

Gen shrugged his bony shoulders. "Which there do be nothing to knock upon, O toothsome Lady of Ebou Dar!" he protested, and in all fairness, he had a point.

N'aethan, stood in the shadows at the rear of the hut, noted that Gen's yellow teeth were filed to points. A local, presumably, though he spoke the Vulgar, if with a damned strange accent…

"What do you _want_ , Gen?" Ysmet demanded.

Gen stepped into the hut and tugged upon the rope he held, the end of which proved to be tied around the slim neck of a bound and gagged woman. "Raab's kin, who I do think may be called 'Jabbo,' did tell me to bring you _this_ ," Gen explained.

Ysmet immediately drew her rapier whilst Thaeus swept his Heron-mark blade from the sheath at his back. "Are you _mad_ , Gen? Well, _clearly_ you are, but what do you mean by bringing this dangerous Darkfriend witch into our midst?"

"Which the Warder Jabbo did tell me to!" Gen reiterated sullenly, "it do be _his_ blame, and none of mine…"

"Should I execute her, milady?" Thaeus wondered, slipping forward and raising his sword for a beheading stroke. The bound woman shook her head frantically, and made 'mmff! mmff!' noises behind her gag.

"No need," N'aethan said softly, examining the prisoner in the special way he could, "she has been severed, and recently at that."

"Severed?" Ysmet repeated, suspiciously.

"You call it 'stilling.' She can no longer channel."

At this reminder of her condition, the Darkfriend captive sank to her knees, head bowed, and produced a series of muffled sobs. Ysmet hesitated, then sheathed her rapier. "It seems to have taught the arrogant witch some humility," she observed.

Ysmet glanced at N'aethan and jumped; from her reaction, he knew that his cobalt irises must be glowing in the gloom. He grinned with his sharp teeth; Ysmet's eyes widened. "Mayhap you should shave the prisoner's head and write 'Betrayer' upon it?" N'aethan suggested, "tis what the Aes Sedai did to captured Dreadlords in the War." Prior to their executions at the hands of Ogier Headsmen, of course.

Ysmet raised an eyebrow. "And which War would this be, exactly?"

N'aethan shrugged broad shoulders. "The War of-"

"Cat King!" Gen had abruptly knelt also and was staring at N'aethan, agog… all present stared at him with bemusement, even the sobbing prisoner.

"What?" N'aethan responded.

"Tis you!" Gen cried, "King o' the Cats! Your sister did say you would come to _Aisle Souvraniene_ one day and here you be… finally!"

"My sister?"

"The Goddess! Fox Queen! Feir-called-Fourthborn!"

N'aethan frowned, puzzled. "You... you _know_ her?"

Gen nodded enthusiastically and began to shuffle forward on his bony knees across the feather-bestrewn floor, mumbling as he went; "aye, that I do, King Cat! A long time ago I was sent to slay her, and did fail miserably… the Goddess took pity on me in my wretched state and did spare my unworthy life. She did find me amusing! Each night I did tell to her a different story, and she would say; 'that was lovely, Gen, so I'll not kill you just yet… tomorrow, for definite!' In the end, she did free me… all hail the Fox Queen!" By this, Gen had reached N'aethan and began to grovel before him, stroking his boots and muttering prayers in an obscure dialect of the Old Tongue which the Lightborn could barely comprehend.

The Lady Ysmet was looking embarrassed and Lord Thaeus was grinning. "It seems that you have made a new friend, Naythan Gaidin!" he jested.

N'aethan scowled down at the crouching lunatic. "Stop that! Leave my feet alone, you!" Gen obeyed, ceasing his unwanted obeisances, and gazed up at N'aethan with dog-like devotion. "How do you know who I am anyway, strange person?" N'aethan demanded of the addled old man.

Gen answered readily enough; "which your holy sister did describe you on occasion, and did show to me a picture of thee!"

"A picture?"

"Aye! A small painting of you and your scaresome blind brother and he who did make you all, the Father of Creation, a-sitting in a nice Ogier chair…"

"Oh, _that_ picture. Wait! Where is she? Where is my sister, Feir?" N'aethan glanced around eagerly; "is she here?"

Thaeus shook his head. "Feir was at the camp briefly, but she went to Stedding..?"

"Dashai," Ysmet supplied.

"Yes, there. The Ogier are being attacked by the forces of the Laughing God, she went to aid them. She asked that you join her there, Naythan Gaidin." Thaeus' brow furrowed with concern; "and I must go there too, she may be in danger…"

"Unlikely!" Gen chimed-in, "the Fourthborn do be a deadly foe to all who cross her! She will be unto the red-masks like a fearsome fox amongst chicklings!"

"She certainly _sounds_ like a Lightborn," N'aethan commented, his mind working furiously. Stedding Dashai was relatively near to the Dragon College, he could be there in less than a day, if he pushed the pace. But he could not leave yet, he had to recall Cohradin and Gerom to their duty first… and, much as he wanted to finally meet his sister, to no longer be the Last Lightborn, he felt caution also. One should always be careful of what one wished for…

"Naythan Gaidin?" N'aethan turned enquiringly to the Lady Ysmet. She hesitated, then asked; "forgive the impertinence, but may I see your _ears?_ "

N'aethan blinked slowly, in a feline way. "An unexpected request, milady, but I don't see why not…" He swept back the long, white locks at his left temple, exposing an ear that rose to an abbreviated point, tipped with a tuft of bristly hair.

Ysmet gasped. "Like your sister!" She paused, then tentatively asked; "are… are you and she… of the Fair Folk?"

N'aethan stared, then laughed, the mewling sound he made when amused. "Nay, my Lady! We are Lightborn, that is all!" His mirth faded, replaced by a more bitter mien. "Believe me, there is nothing remotely _fair_ about _our_ existence."

Outside, the sun was sinking below a line of volcanoes, far to the west. Thaeus glanced at N'aethan hesitantly, then spoke; "I travelled with your sister… with Feir… for a time. She is a most singular person, unlike anyone I have ever met…"

Out beyond the surf, a longboat crewed by a dozen of the less inebriated sailors was pulling for the captured ship. The Lady Ysmet sat in the stern, tending the tiller, and the peculiar Gen balanced in the prow, eager to search the hold of their prize for cheese. The captured Darkfriend woman had been locked in the store hut, and was being closely guarded by the Shaido Aiel. No-one had seen Rashiel Sedai nor Dagnon Gaidin for quite some time...

Thaeus continued; "we… we became intimate, Feir and I… I have not known her long, but care for her deeply… I hope that you do not disapprove?"

N'aethan smiled. "I have never even _met_ my sister… how could I?"

Thaeus looked relieved. "Her Gholam was not happy about the relationship," he confided.

N'aethan's eyes narrowed, pupils slitting dangerously. "Her _what?_ "

Before Thaeus could reply, N'aethan's attention was drawn to Jabal Gaidin and another Sea Folk man, a slender fellow with a large, golden fish painted on his bare chest. The Twins were with them; the four men staggering past, heading down to the sea. They bore a heavy burden between them… the _Atha'an Miere_ holding the arms, the Mayener brothers the legs.

Thaeus watched them also, until they were out of sight, then turned to N'aethan. "What was that all about?" he wondered.

N'aethan shrugged. "Somebody else's nightmare."

* * *

Duadh-called-Blue Ring stood atop the cliff, gazing moodily out to sea, his parrot perched upon his shoulder. His axe hung limply from one tattooed hand, the fingers of the other clenching and unclenching fitfully. The sight of the _Stormchaser_ with its Clan Waketa flag lowered and replaced by an accursed Gleeman's cloak was surely the final straw… truly, this was the worst day of his life! And to think that it had begun so promisingly… The Children of the Storm had outnumbered their enemy three-to-one, had a pair of powerful channelers on their side; but the stout defence, that shoal-cursed burning rain, the untimely arrival of reinforcements… it had all gone horribly wrong. And no-one had told Duadh that their foe had _Aiel_ amongst them! The sight of two unarmed, _unclothed_ Aielmen slaughtering a dozen of his best fighters like silverpike amongst a school of sprats, then going to deal with the Samma N'Sei, had driven home to Duadh quite thoroughly that the battle was lost.

True, Duadh had led the remnants of his crew against the last stand of his enemy, hoping that he might at least slay the Shorebound Noblewoman and take back the ancient Waketa dagger to which she had no right… but his heart had not been in it. With his fine ship taken and the last of his people falling all around him, Duadh had retreated to the forest with but one thought in mind; retribution.

The Darkfriend Tinker and his men would be somewhere to the south, near to the arcane stone that had brought them here. Another of those Samma N'Sei channelers should be there too. Duadh would lead them back to this place, massacre the Shorebound Light-lovers and take back the _Stormchaser_ , or die in the attempt. If he did not, then he would perish for his failure in any event; if She Who Called the Gales did not have him killed for losing his ship and crew, then his ruthless mother, Wavemistress of the Waketa, assuredly would. And if the Shadowsworn _Tuatha'an_ assassin objected to Duadh assuming his command? Duadh's grip tightened upon the axe haft. Then he would take great pleasure in splitting that mincing pretty-boy's skull!

Syed the parrot cocked his brightly-plumed head and made the chirruping sound that let Duadh know someone was coming. He turned, not particularly caring who it was. Whoever had followed him up here should have thought better of it, since he was going to kill them. He was in a killing mood.

The bushes parted and two _Atha'an Miere_ men emerged; one muscular with a fancloth cloak draped over his bare torso, the other skinny, with a ridiculous-looking fish painted upon his chest. The first Sea Folk mariner held a sword, the second clutched a long knife. Two pairs of dark eyes regarded Duadh with cold hatred.

Duadh chuckled. "I know that look! I slew someone you cared for, did I not?" He glanced at their hands without much interest, noting their Clan sigils. "Did I give your kin to the salt, Takana?"

The _Atha'an Miere_ with the Warder cloak snarled angrily. "You murdered my Laandra, Son of the Sands!" he shouted.

Duadh shrugged his broad shoulders. "Laandra? Who is Laandra?"

"She was my sister!" yelled the skinny Sea Folk man.

"That hardly helps," Duadh pointed-out, "I have slain a _lot_ of people over the years… can you be more specific?"

After a hesitation, the Takana Warder growled; "off Tremalking, seven years ago… you led a raiding party onto the decks of the _Wavedancer_ , a double-masted Soarer of my Clan…"

"Oh, that old tub? I recall something of the sort… you two cabin-brats are kin to the 'prentice Windfinder I slew? I did not intend to, I wished to take her alive and enjoy her favours at my leisure, then give what was left of her to my crew for their own diversion…" Duadh grinned nastily, gold teeth flashing, raising his axe; "…but she tried to stab me with her little knife and the battle-lust was upon me, so I struck her down. The war-madness, it is upon me now, also… I shall send you both to join her, in whatever place that cowardly Takana stinkfish go to when they die!"

" _Stinkfish! Squaaa!_ " squawked the parrot, then sensing imminent violence, launched itself skyward, out of harm's way.

With twin howls of rage, the pair of Sea Folk hurled themselves at Duadh and he leapt forward to meet them, axe whirling overhead. He concentrated his attack upon the Takana in the Warder cloak, clearly the more dangerous of the two, driving him back with a fierce flurry of blows. "Are you a _real_ Gaidin?" Duadh demanded loudly as their weapons clashed, "or did you steal that cloak from a corpse?"

"I am a Warder of the White Tower!" his opponent proclaimed, proudly.

"I have never slain a Brother of Battles before…"

"And you never will!" the Takana swordsman responded, side-stepping and slashing a long, red line in Duadh's blue-tattooed chest. The other Takana darted in, stabbing with his knife, but Duadh avoided the clumsy strike easily, whirling his axe in a circle to keep his other opponent at bay whilst cuffing the knifeman hard across the face; he went reeling back, blood on his lip, and collided with a tree trunk, sitting down hard against it.

"You fight like an Amayar!" Duadh shouted at him, scornfully.

The Sea Folk Warder sprang high into the air, bringing his sword sweeping down to cleave Duadh's skull… he was fast, this one, but then, so was his adversary. Duadh raised his weapon swiftly to parry the blow… and the sword-blade shattered against the axe-head, snapping off near the tang! The _Atha'an Miere_ Gaidin sprang back, barely avoiding Duadh's return-stroke and raised the ivory hilt, drawing attention to the few inches of steel that were all that now projected from it. "Where did you get this bloody sword?" he demanded of his kin.

"I won it in a dice game!" Duadh heard the skinny Takana wail in response.

Duadh laughed harshly, then lunged forward, his axe swiping at the Warder's head, but his opponent rolled out of the way of the descending blade, scooping up the other Takana's fallen knife, then stood waiting calmly. Duadh paced toward him, spinning his axe skilfully. "Any last words, Takana?" he asked.

The Sea Folk Warder nodded. "Yes, Waketa. I have just decided how to end your miserable life. I think that you will find it appropriate!"

Duadh resumed his laughter as he prepared to kill his enemy… but then, something hard smashed into the back of his skull. His eyes rolled up into his head, his axe fell from paralysed fingers, and he toppled forward into darkness.

When Duadh came back to his senses, blinking open blood-encrusted eyes, he could feel waves lapping at his bare feet. Odd. He tried to move, but his arms and legs would not obey the commands of his brain. Turning his head, groaning at the pounding in his skull, Duadh could see that his wrists were securely held in place with thick, leather thongs knotted to large, wooden stakes, driven deep into the damp sand. Presumably, so were his ankles.

The Sea Folk Warder appeared in Duadh's field of vision, crouching and staring at him with dark eyes that held great satisfaction. Over his shoulder, Duadh could see the skinny Takana standing with arms crossed, watching him with an equally satisfied gaze.

"What happened?" Duadh mumbled, his mouth dry.

The Takana Warder jerked a thumb at his kin. "Raab there hit you over the head with a tree branch," he stated.

Raab nodded. "More of a stick, really," he qualified, "but you looked like you had a hard head, murdering Waketa, so I made sure it was a _big_ one!"

"There is little honour in that," Duadh grumbled, "I offered you fair fight, and was struck down from behind… dishonourable!"

The Warder scowled. "What honour lies in murdering an unarmed maiden?"

Duadh might have pointed out that the girl had waved a knife at him, though it had done her little good… but he did not bother. He really did not care anymore.

"What honour is there in anything _else_ you have done in the course of your evil existence?" demanded Raab.

Duadh attempted to shrug, and despite his constraints, just about managed it. "True enough, I suppose. I have never had much use for honour, as a rule."

"I am Jabal din Sudim Lionfish, Gaidin of the Tower," the crouching Takana revealed, "and I believe that you know my cousin, Raab din Sudim Black Squall?"

"What of it?" Duadh muttered sullenly. He could feel the waves washing about his thighs now.

"I wanted you to know our names before you died," Jabal explained.

" _And_ us!" reminded two voices with Mayener accents, speaking at once.

Duadh swivelled his aching head and beheld a pair of identical Shorebound men wearing Warder cloaks also, watching him belligerently with dark brown eyes.

"These are Aebel and Blaek Feruile, also Warders."

"I have slain a few Oilfishers in my time," Duadh commented.

The twin Warders scowled an identical scowl.

"We helped carry you down to the beach, pirate," said one.

"You were _heavy!_ " added the other.

Duadh snorted contemptuously, then turned back to the Takana cousins. "What now?" he demanded, "will you torture me? I was put to the question by Whitecloak Inquisitors once… I _laughed_ at them!"

Jabal shook his head. "You have no information that we require, so what would be the point of torturing you?"

" _Enjoyment_ of course, you Light-loving fool!" Raab seemed to be actively considering it, but Jabal shook his head firmly. "Oh, just kill me and get it over with!" Duadh roared, "I am bored with talking to you and your matching Oilfishers, Takana scum!" The waves were breaking over his hips now, his legs fully submerged.

Jabal exchanged an amused glance with Raab, then smiled coldly down at Duadh. "Oh, _we_ are not going to kill you… the sea will do that for us. It seems only fitting, given the way that you vile Storm Children have always made sacrifice to the Dark One, by drowning your victims."

Raab moved closer, leaning over Duadh, smirking insolently. "That's right, Duadh din Retif Blue Ring… we're giving you to the _salt_."

What angered Duadh most of all was that his Storm-cursed, self-righteous executioners did not even bother staying to watch him die! After a brief while, the four of them simply walked away up the beach, discussing the day's events with one another… it was humiliating! Duadh lay there awhile – well, he had little choice but to do so – as the sun slowly sank in the west, feeling the rising tide cover his barrel chest and lap against his thick neck, like the cold touch of death. Well, there were worse ways to die, he supposed. Duadh had lived life to the full and indulged his passion for carnage often… he had few regrets. Then, Duadh heard footsteps crunching in the wet sand, slowly approaching. A tall man loomed over him, a brightly plumed bird perched on his shoulder.

"Syed!" Duadh cried, glad to be reunited with his prized parrot for one last time, "I see that you have found a new master."

"That he has," the man agreed, equably.

"Look after him well," Duadh bade the stranger, before stretching the truth by claiming; "he is a good bird."

"That he is not," the man commented, "but I shall take care of him, even so."

Duadh frowned. "What do you want?" he demanded, "come to gloat?"

The man shook his head. "Not really. Mayhap your parrot wished to bid you farewell? Or perhaps my Mistress sent me to watch you drown, to ensure that you were dead? All things are possible…"

"That they are," Duadh agreed absently, feeling the rising tide against his chin, the waves lapping over his face. It was useless to try to break his bonds, he had attempted this several times and had only bloody wrists to show for it. He could tell that Syed's new master had absolutely no intention of aiding him, his eyes held little in the way of pity for his plight, just a certain interest in witnessing an ancient and barbaric mode of execution… or sacrifice… "I go now to the embrace of the Father of Storms," Duadh intoned, as the water rose above his ears.

" _Squaaa! Stormfather!_ "

The stranger smiled coldly, venturing to stroke the talking bird. The parrot pecked his finger viciously, but the man merely chuckled in response. He sucked his sore digit and gazed down at Duadh, staked-out in the surf, before commenting; "Stormfather, eh? Now personally, I always refer to our Master as the Great Lord of the Dark…" With that, he turned and walked away, Syed yet perched upon his shoulder. Duadh thought about it, then began to laugh harshly. He was still laughing when the sea washed into his mouth, drowning his mirth, as the salt claimed him for its own.

* * *

"Life is a dream – that knows no shade

Life is a dream – of pain and woe."

N'aethan stood by the graves, up in the dunes beyond the beach, listening as the Shaido Aiel sang their lament for the dead. He recalled the cremation of young Tevin at the Cenotaph, the last occasion on which he had heard this sonorous song, and sighed regretfully. Funerals always made him feel melancholy… probably, he was not alone in this. How many more would fall to the Shadow before the Dark One was finally defeated? Too many. N'aethan joined-in on the second part, adding his light tenor to the deeper baritones of Cohradin and Chassin, Gerom's rumbling bass and Manda's high soprano;

"A dream from which – we pray to wake

A dream from which – we wake and go."

With that, it was done. N'aethan helped the Shaido to fill in the deep, narrow pit in which the shrouded body of Ruon, Water Seeker of the Tomanelle, was interred upright and facing in the direction of sunrise, as was the ancient burial custom of the Aiel. Ruon had been found lying outside the hidden, rear door in the stockade, quite dead though there were no marks of violence upon him. The _Duadhe Mahdi'in_ had had a surprisingly peaceful expression on his cold face. The captive Darkfriend witch, Irmilla, had been responsible of course, though as yet had refused to confess to the murder… the shipwrecked crew had been unanimous in wishing to see her hanged for this crime, in addition to numerous others, but sense had prevailed. Irmilla represented a valuable source of information concerning their enemy – _one_ of their enemies, at least – and so her execution had been stayed at the insistence of the Lady Ysmet and N'aethan. For the time being, at least.

Gerom gazed down at Ruon's grave for a moment, then muttered; "he was brave, for a Tomanelle, and carried great honour. He could not bear his shame, and yet he had the courage to live with it." The other Shaido murmured their agreement.

With Ruon's remains buried, they moved on to the second pit… that of Medelin, once Thunder Walker of the Shaido. In death, his true name had been restored to him. Cohradin had objected to this honour being paid to his foe, but N'aethan had strongly suspected that the unfortunate male-channeler had been forcibly Turned to the Shadow, as had often been done to captured Aes Sedai in his day. More than once he had been required to kill a former comrade who had been suborned in this fashion, possessed by the Dark One's immeasurable evil. He had taken consolation in the fact that they were not who they had been anymore, that a wicked presence now possessed them… slaying one who was Turned was really doing them a favour.

Irmilla had reluctantly confirmed this suspicion, when pressed, so Medelin too occupied a narrow grave amongst the dunes. Cohradin began to kick sand into the pit, then paused and dug something out of his pocket. It was Medelin's heart, looking shrivelled and somewhat the worse for wear… he tossed it in with the rest of the dead Aielman – his severed hand had been tucked into his shroud already – and they filled in the grave. Then, as one, the Shaido turned to stare expectantly at N'aethan.

"You promised that you would tell us the truth of our origins, _Vron'cor_ ," Gerom reminded him.

N'aethan did not answer immediately, glancing at the beach below, where a large bonfire blazed, surrounded by smaller camp-fires. Further toward the sea, a long line of funeral pyres still flickered fitfully, where the sailors who had fallen in the battle had been honoured and remembered. He could hear music coming from down there, the Gleeman's high, trilling flute winding in and out of the rhythm of a drum, played skilfully by the _Atha'an Miere_ , Raab. There would be singing and dancing… and also, courtesy of the stores found aboard the captured ship, feasting. N'aethan would far rather have been by the fires than up here in the faintly starlit darkness... but he had made a promise.

N'aethan turned to the Shaido, motioning for them to sit. Being Aiel, they squatted instead, Chassin and Manda leaning on their spears, Cohradin and Gerom doing without this prop, as they had broken theirs. A decision that N'aethan intended to make them rethink. He needed these two Knife Hands to be _warriors_ , not water-carriers and… and whatever foolish activities Cohradin had engaged in!

N'aethan sat cross-legged on the sand and ran glowing, cobalt eyes over his audience, who waited expectantly, with the ineffable patience of the Aiel. He began; "I will now tell to you Shaidos a tale that Father once told me…" Cohradin opened his mouth eagerly, but N'aethan forestalled him; " _not_ the Father of Creation, Cohradin! Never met him, have I! I speak of Chaime Kufer Mors, the Aes Sedai who _made_ me!" Though Father had probably thought he _was_ the Creator at times, N'aethan considered. Chaime Sedai's delusions of grandeur had been legendary! "He constructed my Brothers also, my Sister too. Betimes, here is what happened… one day, a very long time ago, I asked of him…"

 _"Why are the Da'shain the way they are, Father?"_

 _Chaime Kufer, Aes Sedai, turned away from the spectrograph-ter'angreal that he was adjusting with a slender web of Spirit and glanced enquiringly at the small boy with the long white hair who loitered beside the work-table, staring up at him solemnly with shining, cobalt eyes. "Hmmf?"_

 _"The Aiel, Father, the Da'shain Aiel... they won't commit violence, even to protect themselves… why do they follow the Leaf Way, and do no harm?" Chaime Sedai raised a thin eyebrow and did not answer immediately. Someone else did._

 _"Because of the Covenant, stupid!" The voice was whispery and unnerving; it emerged from the thin lipped mouth of a pale youth occupying a stool at the neighbouring table, sorting through his collection of barbed and jagged hand-blades. He too had long white hair, a dark band stretched across his pallid face, covering where his eyes might have been._

 _The boy glared at the youth, his Brother. "I_ know _about the Covenant, Taw, and I am_ not _stupid, you are!"_

 _"No, you are."_

 _"No, you are!"_

 _"Boys!" Chaime very rarely raised his voice, so they fell respectfully silent. The small boy, Tro, stuck his long tongue out at his Brother, however._

 _"Do that again and I'll cut it off and make you eat it!" Taw hissed, waving a sharp blade at Tro. The Thirdborn retracted his tongue swiftly, gulped nervously._

 _"Cease threatening Younger Brother, Taw," Chaime commanded wearily, obviously not expecting to be obeyed. He considered a moment, then swivelled on his stool, facing them both. His lean form was swathed in a voluminous robe of dark velvet, a blunt, horn-hilted dagger hung about his neck on a silken cord. Tro wore a simple pair of grey flatweave shorts and a matching vest, an embroidered badge over his heart depicting a blue triangle with curlicues at the points. Taw, in black shattercloth coveralls decorated with a double row of silver buttons shaped like skulls, was more impressively garbed than his Brother; his badge displayed an elongated green figure-eight, a lemniscate._

" _It is not entirely a stupid question," Chaime observed, then pinned Taw with his inscrutable, almond-shaped eyes, eyes that had seen terrible things. "You speak of the Covenant, my Son… but do you know why there_ is _a Covenant?"_

 _Taw shrugged, uncaring. "Because there is, Father… there has always been the Covenant betwixt the Aes Sedai and their Da'shain."_

 _"Always is a long time, my Son. There has always been a Creator. There has always been a Great Lord. All else is transitory."_

 _"Father," Tro pointed-out, "the Dark One… you called him…"_

 _"Ah. Yes. The Dark One, then… forgive my lapse."_

 _"I always call him Shai'tan," Taw muttered._

 _"That's bad luck!" Tro objected._

 _"So is annoying me, kitten!" Taw snarled._

 _"Don't call me that! Father, Taw called me-"_

 _"Yes, my Son, I heard. Apologise to your Brother, Taw."_

 _"Do I have to?"_

 _"Yes. You know that Tro does not like to be named that."_

 _Taw produced a sepulchral sigh. "Very well. Brother, I am sorry for calling you… what I called you."_

 _Tro smiled, baring pointy teeth. "That's alright, Middle Bro. It's not your fault that you're so horrible! It's just the way that Father made you…"_

 _"True."_

 _"Boys?" The eldritch Brothers turned expectantly, to face the Aes Sedai who had constructed them, the only father that they would ever know. "I am_ very _busy. Do you wish to hear the answer to Tro's question or not?" They nodded, Tro eagerly, Taw less so. "I told this tale to Elder Brother also, before he went away to the War…" Chaime paused for a moment, a shadow of concern passing over his gaunt features, then began;_

" _Long ago, at the end of the Last Age, the first Aes Sedai began to manifest. They were men and women who had taught themselves to access the Power that turns the Great Wheel, and in so doing, found a new way of controlling existence, without recourse to mere technology. As their numbers grew and their strength increased, they sought to remake the world, using their burgeoning influence to banish war and want for all time. Most concurred with their plans, followed their lead; some did not."_

" _What does this have to do with the Da'shain, Father?" Tro demanded._

" _Shut-up and listen, stupid!" Taw whispered chillingly._

" _I was just getting to that part. One by one, the nascent Aes Sedai, ancestors to those Servants of All who exist today, overcame all who opposed them in their great task of bringing peace and prosperity to a troubled world. The Servants accomplished this with negotiation, intimidation, and when all else failed, annihilation. Finally, there remained but a single people extant that yet stood between the Aes Sedai and their grand goal. Can you guess who?"_

 _Tro and Taw exchanged a glance._

" _The Da'shain?"_

" _The Aiel?"_

" _Indeed. They were not called that then, of course… their original name is lost to human memory, but their race have many names in legend, oft borrowed from myths even older; The Painted People, the Fianna, the Warped Ones, and many more. But all of these legends agree that these... 'Proto-Aiel' let us call them, were the most skilled and brave warriors who have ever existed. Utterly implacable in battle, fearing nothing, not even death itself."_

 _Tro gasped, strange eyes wide and staring._

" _The Da'shain, warriors?" Taw uttered incredulously, his voice buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps._

" _Difficult to accept, is it not?" Chaime smiled thinly, warming to his subject. "But it is nonetheless true… or at least, she who told me this tale claimed that it was. I have no reason to believe otherwise, to doubt the veracity. In any case, these Proto-Aiel of the Last Age fought the Aes Sedai longer and harder than anyone else, resisting their every attempt to change them. But inevitably, they were overcome. They lost their final war. The survivors surrendered themselves to the victors, expecting to be exterminated. Anticipating it, even. But their courage and conviction had impressed the highest amongst the Aes Sedai, their dedication to what they believed in seemed too valuable a resource to waste. And so; the Covenant was created, and the Proto-Aiel swore to it, their honour compelling them to obey those who had defeated them. They made solemn oath to put aside their violent past and follow the Way of the Leaf, doing no harm under any circumstances. They entered a pact to faithfully serve their new masters, the only force to ever vanquish them… the Aes Sedai." Chaime leaned back on his stool and smiled enigmatically. "And they have been doing so ever since. The End."_

 _A thoughtful silence followed as the young Lightborn considered this, a silence that Tro was about to break by asking who had told Father this story… but then, there came the sound of the lock cycling open. Tro and Taw turned to look; the circular heartstone portal rolled aside with a grinding sound and the familiar figure of the Da'shain Ledrin stepped into the Secure Laboratory, followed by his son, Jarn, pushing a trolley stacked with artefacts. The Lightborn gazed upon the tall Aiel with their reddish hair and light irises, though only one of them had eyes to gaze with._

" _The items that you requested, Chaime Sedai," Ledrin murmured in his habitual mild tones, and Jarn pushed the trolley further into the laboratory, eyes meekly downcast as always. Tro stared at the Da'shain in wonder and confusion, trying to resolve these placid, peaceable servants with Father's description of fearsome warriors… surely not?_

" _Thank you, Ledrin. My thanks, Jarn."_

 _Ledrin bowed, the respect he paid to the Master invested with great dignity. "Will that be all, Chaime Sedai?"_

" _Yes. You may go."_

 _As Ledrin turned to leave and follow Jarn from the chamber, he smiled fondly at the two young Lightborn… then hesitated, raising his eyebrows. "Why do you stare at me so, Young Masters?" he enquired gently._

" _Oh, it is nothing, Ledrin."_

" _No reason, Ledrin."_

 _Ledrin resumed his smile and left the laboratory, the portal rolling shut behind him with the finality of fate itself._

"The End." N'aethan leaned back, tale complete, waiting to see which of the considering Shaido would break the silence. It was Cohradin, naturally.

"How do we know that this tale of our ancestors is even true, Nightwatcher?"

N'aethan shrugged his broad shoulders. "Technically, they were the ancestors of your ancestors," he pointed-out, "and you _don't_ know if it is true. Neither do I, not really. But whilst Father often withheld parts of the truth, I am certain that he never lied to me, to my Brothers either. Not once."

Gerom lifted his head, asking in his deep tones; " _Vron'cor_ , you mention that your father was told this story by another? Whom?"

"Latra Posae Decume, Aes Sedai. The Tamyrlin. Long before he told us."

Gerom raised his thick, reddish eyebrows. " _Shadar Nor!_ "

N'aethan smiled, gratified. "You have heard of _her_ , at least? Good…"

"The Cutter of the Shadow was mentioned in a very old book, Nightwatcher."

"The Mother never lied to me either. Except that she said my poems were good, when they weren't, but that was just her being kind." N'aethan sighed, regretfully. "A pleasant woman, was Latra Sedai…"

"Wait!" cried Chassin, his brow furrowed, "so what you are saying, _Vron'cor_ , is… is that we Aiel have _always_ been warriors, except for in the Age of Legends, when we were not?"

"When we were but lowly servants who pushed trolleys around," Cohradin muttered, adding suspiciously; "and what _is_ a 'trolley' anyway?"

N'aethan ignored Cohradin, answering Chassin instead; "I suppose that the Da'shain Aiel did start out as warriors, yes. But my point is that while your ancestors abandoned the Covenant during this Breaking of the World that I slept through, they did not entirely go against their natures in so doing… in a way, the Aiel came full circle, back to where they began."

"As the Wheel of Time revolves from one Age back to the Age that gave it birth," Gerom intoned.

N'aethan nodded approvingly. "Yes Gerom, an excellent metaphor."

Manda rose, yawning. "I thank you for the story, Nightwatcher, it was an interesting tale. But since I never gave up the spear in the first place, I do not require convincing to take it up again." She glanced disparagingly at Cohradin and Gerom, sniffing with disapproval. "See if you can talk some sense into these two fools, though." With that, she slipped into the night, running lithely down to the beach.

"Manda is doubtless off to rut with that hook-handed Wetlands sailorman," Chassin observed, "she was making eyes at him the whole way back in the boat."

A pause, then Chassin and Cohradin growled; " _Maidens!_ " at the same time. Gerom did not join in with their disapproval, his eyes had a far-away look as he considered the distant past.

Chassin rose. He held his favourite spear in his right hand, two additional spears in his left. One of these he offered to Cohradin. "Well, my brother?" he demanded pugnaciously, "will you cease your foolishness and take up the spear once more, to be _Sovin Nai_ again and join me for the Final Dance with the Shadow?"

Cohradin hesitated, then sighed and took the spear. "Though my honour demanded it, I did not really enjoy being Da'tsang anyway," he admitted, "little wonder that it is more usually considered a punishment!"

Chassin then moved on to Gerom, holding out the other spear. Gerom looked at it for a long moment. "I would that I had been born in the Age of Legends," he mumbled, mournfully.

"You would have made a fine Da'shain back then, Gerom," N'aethan felt obliged to declare, though he supposed that he should not encourage the big Aielman's pacifistic yearnings.

"Would _I_ have made a fine Da'shain of the Age of Legends also?" Cohradin enquired hopefully, as he stood up.

"No, Cohradin, you most definitely would _not!_ "

Cohradin frowned, but then brightened when Gerom reluctantly took the spear from Chassin. The big Knife Hand rose, looking at the weapon with fatalism. "One cannot outrun fate," Gerom observed.

N'aethan nodded, rising also. "I have been trying to do that for most of my life, without much in the way of success!" he commented. As N'aethan and the Shaido walked down toward the fires on the beach, he added; "Ruon tried to outdistance his destiny, and look where it got him." He scowled, eyes slitting. "This _Car'a'carn_ of yours, whether he is the Dragon Reborn or not, has much to answer for! In making public to the Aiel the secret of the Covenant, he did not set free men and women like Ruon… he _destroyed_ them!"

The _Sovin Nai_ were more philosophical about this. "The Prophecy _did_ say that the Chief of Chiefs would break us," Gerom pointed-out, "it was inevitable."

"He Who Comes with the Dawn can do whatever he wants!" Chassin added loyally, "even telling the truth!"

Cohradin was not paying attention to the others. "There is that Sharaman," he commented, "what is he doing out in the dark on his own?" The other Shaido lacked the night-vision of Cohradin's _seia'dor_ and so did not immediately see the Ayyad youth, but N'aethan could, of course. His eyes were better at scanning the darkness than any optical implant, by far. Hamadi stood atop a dune, head craned back, staring up at the stars.

"Hoy, eye-brother!" Cohradin called out to him, exuberantly.

Hamadi turned his head, a red orb glowing in the left-hand socket of his tattooed face; a match for the one in Cohradin's.

"Young Hamadi certainly made a lot less fuss when we gave him _his_ eye," N'aethan observed, grinning at Cohradin; " _you_ screamed like you were giving birth!"

Cohradin scowled. "His wound was _new_ , Nightwatcher! When you gave to me _my_ magickal eye, you told me it was making my dead nerves wake up, _that_ is why it was so painful!"

"Fair enough." N'aethan switched to the speech of the Easterlings, addressing the Sharan youth; " _good eve, red-eyed Hamadi of the Ayyad! What are you staring at?_ "

Hamadi came down the dune to join them, white teeth flashing in his dusky, decorated face. " _The stars, Honoured Spirit… they have always fascinated me and now, with this wondrous eye, I see them better than ever I could before!_ " He nodded companionably to Cohradin. " _Please tell the foul-smelling barbarian that he was entirely correct about the powers of this red eye that he also wears…_ "

"Hamadi says he is looking at the stars and you were right about the abilities of the _seia'dor_ ," N'aethan diplomatically translated for Cohradin's benefit, a suitably edited version of what had actually been said.

Cohradin nodded, looking pleased, then gazed upwards, closing his blue eye and letting the red one scan the heavens. "I wonder what the stars _are?_ " he mused.

"Immense spheres of burning gases," N'aethan answered, promptly.

Cohradin did not hear. "There is a big bird up there," he reported, "an eagle, I think… odd, to see one flying at night." N'aethan looked up. There was indeed a large eagle, circling as it descended. "I could swear that I had seen that eagle somewhere before," Cohradin speculated, "but where..?"

"When the Maidens were beating you with sticks," N'aethan reminded him, "there was an eagle overhead then, watching… it is the same one."

"The day of my honour-filled toh-giving!" Cohradin grinned. "Of course!"

"The eagle looks to be coming in to land over by the big fire," N'aethan reported, "let us go and see what it wants."

N'aethan hastened toward the fires, the Knife Hands following, Hamadi trailing after. " _What is going on, Spirit?_ " he called to N'aethan.

" _An eagle comes! We go to look at it!_ "

" _You do? Is this eagle-watching some sort of barbaric animal-worshipping ritual?_ " Hamadi enquired.

N'aethan grinned. " _Yes!_ "

Before the bonfire, to the accompaniment of wild, skirling music provided by Roth's flute and Raab's drum, the Lady Ysmet was dancing with Jabal whilst Rashiel Sedai danced with Dagnon. The Twins stood to one side, tapping their feet as they awaited their turn with the ladies, there being no other female partners available. An assortment of drunken sailors clapped encouragement as the two couples performed their swift and complex steps in perfect time to the beat. Gen was off to one side, dancing by himself in a peculiar way. There was no sign of either Manda or the Bosun…

The Darkfriend prisoner, Irmilla Nadona, was clapped in irons aboard the ship, being closely guarded by Lord Thaeus, who had already questioned her exhaustively concerning the Shadowsworn Hag she served, whom she termed her 'Dread Mistress.' Irmilla had been as reticent about Arachnae Kirikil as she dared… it seemed that she feared this 'Crone' even more than execution itself.

The song ended as N'aethan and the others entered the circle of firelight, a tune he had not recognised, which was hardly surprising. "What was that air you just played, Gleeman?" he asked the flautist.

" _Fluff the Feathers!_ " Roth answered. His face was flushed, he had drunk rather a lot of the wine found aboard their prize, but this did not seem to affect his musical skills.

"Play another, husband!" Ysmet called to Roth as Aebel (or Blaek) came over to replace Jabal as her partner. Though there had been some hard words when they were reunited, she seemed to have forgiven the foolish Gleeman his message in a bottle since, after all was said and done, it _had_ brought them a ship with which to attempt the long voyage home. Though at no small cost, as the row of flickering pyres along the shore attested. Dagnon gave way with good grace to Blaek (or Aebel) as the Mayener Warder took Rashiel's hand for the next dance, and strode toward the wine barrel, twisting the points on his large moustache good humouredly… but then he came to a sudden halt, staring suspiciously at Cohradin. Or rather, at the bloodstained, torn garment he was yet wearing.

"Why, those look like my best britches!" Dagnon declared, cold blue eyes narrowing, "they _are!_ I was looking for them!" He peered closely at the ruined garb. "Light! What have you _done_ to them, Aielman?!"

Cohradin shrugged. "I wore them in the Dance," he answered, "for all that they are uncomfortable…" He noted Dagnon's glare and protested; "look not daggers at _me_ , Warderman! Your Aes Sedai _commanded_ that I clothe myself in these!"

"It is true," Rashiel confirmed, coming over to diffuse the situation, "I _did_ tell him to wear them, dear Dagnon, since the alternative was too awful to contemplate!"

Dagnon was not listening. "Thief!" he shouted.

"I am no stealer of other men's apparel!" Cohradin shouted back, "these are _borrowed_ britches, only!" He began to peel them off. "See, I now remove them to return to you, slanderous Wetlander!"

"Stop that this instant!" Rashiel cried, "don't you dare!"

" _Keep_ them, Aielman," Dagnon muttered sulkily, "I do not want my britches back, now that you have destroyed them…"

"I shall buy you some more when we return to Illian," Rashiel promised.

"Excuse-me," N'aethan interrupted, "but we saw a big-"

The large eagle came swooping out of the night, circled the bonfire once, then alarmingly settled upon Jabal's shoulder! The Sea Folk Warder jumped, eyeing the bird-of-prey somewhat nervously, but it only seemed to be gripping lightly with its powerful talons, cocking its head and regarding him with a fierce, yellow eye.

"I recognise this bird," Jabal stated wonderingly, "it is _Renn's_ eagle! It flew off when we got to Falme… and we were glad of it! May it please the Light, what is it doing _here?_ " All present watched closely, speculating about what would happen next. What happened next was that the eagle moved its cruel, curved beak close to the side of Jabal's head. His eyes widened.

"What is it doing, cousin?" Raab enquired curiously.

"The eagle… it is… it is _nibbling_ my earlobe, much as my wife sometimes does, when… when we…" Jabal blushed, then asked the eagle; "is that _you_ in there, Renn?" The eagle responded to this by tilting its proud head up and down.

"I've never seen a bloody eagle _nod_ before!" Rashiel exclaimed.

"It could have been a coincidence," Ysmet muttered sceptically.

Rashiel frowned, and approached the eagle perched upon Jabal's bare shoulder. "Renn, if that is you controlling the eagle, then… flap your wings!" The eagle promptly spread its wings and flapped them vigorously, buffeting Jabal's head and making him stagger.

N'aethan moved closer and, feeling rather foolish, addressed the eagle firmly; "Rennetta Sedai, one screech for 'yes' and two for 'no.' Are you and the other Aes Sedai safe?" The eagle screeched once. "Are you all being held captive in the same place?" Another single screech.

Though he did not understand everything that was being said, with the exception of terms like 'Aes Sedai,' Hamadi was no fool and comprehended what was going on, more or less. " _Ask the bird about Dara!_ " he reminded N'aethan, urgently.

"Is the Ayyad woman Dara there as well?" A third affirmative screech came from the eagle, which then glided down from its perch upon Jabal's shoulder and hopped around the bonfire, yellow eyes searching the sand. N'aethan paced after it, Jabal and Rashiel following, others coming over. "Don't crowd the eagle!" N'aethan warned them, then framed his next question carefully; "is there any way that you can tell us where you are, where you're being kept imprisoned?"

The eagle – or rather, Renn – had already thought of this. Locating a stout twig beside a pile of firewood, it gripped it firmly in its beak and, swivelling its feathery head awkwardly, began to scratch in the sand.

"Renn is writing!" Rashiel declared.

"Good idea, wife!" Jabal encouraged the eagle.

Before long, it was done… the eagle dropped the twig and moved to the side where it began to preen its feathers, allowing N'aethan and the others to clearly see what was unevenly writ in the sand. It proved to be a single word:

 _ **LARCHEEN**_


	12. Chapter 10 : The Dead City

_**Gleeman Bob writes :** this chapter took (expletive deleted) AGES! not so much writing it out, I had most of the plot and dialogue floating around inside whatever part of my demented mind it is that makes me write fiction... I also had lots of note-pads and Zebra ink refills! (buy Zebra pens! Zebra pens are the best pens! Zebra are not giving me free pens for saying this... it is just my honest opinion!) no, it was all that typing, editing and spell-checking... it seemed to go on forever. I have been fanfictioning for about seven years now and thought the process might speed up as I gained experience, but I almost seem to be slowing down... encroaching old-age? a severe lack of motivation? Wheel of Time ennui? who can say... oh, & a big 'thank-you' to everyone who did not trouble to point-out that I have been spelling 'Zomara' wrongly for some time now! all previous 'Zomeras' have been corrected, but I am still a bit embarrassed about it..._

 _unfortunately, my commitment to writing shorter chapters in this sequel is turning out to be wishful-thinking... Chapter 10 : The Dead City is way too long, but after I moved the Fox-Daemon intro back to the beginning of Chapter 9 : The Battle, it then became the longest chapter ever, beating the previous record-holder, the interminable Chapter 9 : Below the Tomb from HSUtH... it is over 1,000 words longer even than this! (not particularly interesting, but TRUE!) with only three chapters to go until the end of ItLotM, I will try not to overdo it, but there is still a story-arc to complete, loose-ends to tie-up, resolutions to arrive at... and evil villains to kill-off! Death to the Shadow!_

 _anyway, it remains only to say that this one is for the LADIES! guys can read it too, of course, but TDC is definitely a grrrl-oriented chapter in that every scene is described from the perspective of a female character... even the Gholam! (though only technically a murderous maiden...) I did not plan this, it just turned out that way. seemingly, I have neglected many of my Women of Time in recent chapters, so had to catch up on what all the Heroines of Light & Femme Fatales of the Shadow have been doing in the meantime. it might be an idea to skim through Chapter 7 : The Eagle if you cannot quite recall what Ellyth & friends were up to? it was all so long ago, after all! _

_as always, my greatest Respect & Admiration for the Master World-Builder RJ / JOR jnr. _

_& don't forget to..._

 _...Walk in the Light!_

* * *

 **Prelude :** _ **"You still have me…"**_

Outside of the large tent, the wind howled and wailed, fierce gusts causing the canvas walls to flap vigorously. Arachnae Kirikil sipped at her camomile tea and grimaced… it had gone unpleasantly cold. She turned, holding out the cup. "More-" she began to demand, but bit back the word 'tea' as the Zomara leant gracefully forward and, with a self-satisfied smirk, tilted the red and black striped pot it held. A stream of dark, steaming liquid refreshed and warmed the contents of Arachnae's cup, not so much as a drop spilling. The Zomara performed its every action with deft, inhuman poise, just one of the many things about the androgynous, Shadow-spawned servant that intensely irritated Arachnae. The ancient Friend of the Dark scowled. "Wipe that insolent expression from your soulless face!" she hissed at the Zomara, adding; "vile creature!" for good measure.

The Zomara adopted a solemn mien that did not fool Arachnae for an instant, then moved lithely back to hover attentively behind the folding camp-chair upon which she was seated. It stood silently, awaiting further commands. Commands that it could anticipate before they were even uttered, by the simple expedient of looking inside the mind of its Mistress.

Arachnae turned away from the Zomara with a disapproving sniff, blowing on her tea to cool it, brows knit with ire. The evident satisfaction that the disconcerting creature derived from provoking her with its ability to read thoughts was irksome in the extreme… but then, so was much else that currently troubled her.

Two pairs of eyes were watching Arachnae; one set completely black, lacking iris or whites, the others green and predatory. Silence reigned, excepting the all-pervasive noise of the gale. Arachnae fixed the Courier of the Shadow Library with an expectant gaze. "You were saying, Master Raven?" she prompted.

The lean, cadaverous man - if indeed he could still be termed human - straightened in his own camp-chair, fastidiously smoothing the folds of his dark robe about skinny legs. The Courier spoke softly; "I was merely observing, Dread Lady, that the opportunity to study so rare a spawning of the Shadow is not to be missed… are you quite certain that you shall decline to accompany us?" His habitually solemn features held a trace of what could only be enthusiasm.

Arachnae felt a certain affinity with the Courier in this regard, if little else… the pursuit of esoteric knowledge had always motivated her to much the same extent. She shook her head slowly. "I must remain here, 'pon this desolate shore, Master Raven. Without my standing attendance at the Portal Stone, the way back for you and the others might remain closed, since there is no guarantee that the link may be re-established from the other side."

The Courier shrugged his bony shoulders. "True enough," he allowed, before avidly returning to his theme; "why, to think that one of these rumoured Constructs may have actually survived the War with the Light and the Breaking of the World! There is mention of them in ancient fragments of lost texts, but most of my peers at the Library of the Shadow thought them merely a myth."

"Legends are most oft based upon a modicum of fact," Arachnae pointed-out, beginning to find Master Raven's fascination with the subject more than a little tedious. The Courier blinked his jet-black eyes slowly, then opened his thin-lipped mouth to respond, but was forestalled.

"What _is_ a gowlem?" The voice was clear, differently-accented than their own, and emerged somewhat muffled from behind the red veil covering the mouth of Zaradin, once of the Taardad Aiel. The tall _Samma N'Sei_ squatted easily on the threadbare rug that floored the tent, leaning upon one of his spears. He seemed comfortable enough down there, Arachnae considered, knowing that even had there been a third chair to offer the leader of the Eye Blinders, Zaradin would most likely have refused it. His savage people tended to spurn civilised comforts, furniture being no exception…

The Courier of the Shadow Library frowned at the interruption. " _Gholam!_ " he corrected, pedantically.

Zaradin made a contemptuous snorting sound behind his veil. "Gholam, then," he qualified uncaringly, before demanding; "so what is it, Raven Man? I have not seen it… and I hold no faith in that which has yet to appear before my eyes." He continued in musing tones; "Shadow-wrought, you say, like the Eyeless there…" he gestured disparagingly at the Myrddraal looming in the corner of the tent, arms crossed before its scale-armoured chest, "…though of greater skill in the Dance, and with abilities that these lesser Spawnings do not possess?"

The Myrddraal turned its head at this offhand mention of its kind and regarded Zaradin with blind, brooding menace… but if this concerned the _Samma N'Sei_ , he gave no sign. The Courier blinked his disturbing eyes slowly. "Was all of that an actual _question?_ " he wondered, scathingly. Zaradin nodded curtly. Master Raven took a deep breath, then launched into an impatient exposition concerning the Gholam; its provenance and powers.

Arachnae, already cognisant of this information, felt her attention stray somewhat. She could have commanded that the Courier hold his tongue - or lose it! - but was content to delay what, for her, boded as something of an ordeal. The fourth time that she would have used the Portal Stone inside of a week… and on this occasion, as on the first, activating the ancient device by herself without recourse to a Circle of channelers. An unpleasant task, but a necessary. Arachnae let her implacable mind drift, considering the events of the previous eve; the unlooked-for communication from her trusted assassin, Ranim, and his new-found, altogether unexpected ally…

 _"Whatever it was, it went this way, Mistress Kirikil," the compact, muscular man was explaining to Arachnae, as he held aloft a burning torch to partially banish the night shadows. He wore a curved sword at his belt and was clad in the same rough furs and drab woollens as the rest of the Darkfriends, had long, lank hair the hue of sun-bleached wheat and watery blue eyes. His rustic accents were unmistakeably those of rural Andor._

 _With little interest, Arachnae Kirikil glanced in the indicated direction; flattened bushes, trampled blades of grass and deep, clawed tracks in the sandy soil. The trail led directly back into the foetid forests of the Blight, from which the unknowable monster had earlier emerged to kill. And feed._

" _You don't say?" Arachnae commented witheringly, not troubling to conceal her boredom. The Andoran Darkfriend blinked his pale eyes, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it. "How many?" she enquired, uncaringly._

 _The Andorman hesitated. "How many did the monster kill?" he asked nervously, seeking clarification._

 _Arachnae pinned the Shadowsworn swordsman with her terrifying gaze and he visibly quailed. "No, how many of your fellows did the monster invite to its Nameday celebration!" she snarled, "_ of course _how many did it kill, fool!"_

 _The object of her sarcasm licked his lips nervously. "Four, Dread Lady," he answered hastily, "one as was standing watch and then another three… the terrible creature just came out of the night and slashed 'em to pieces with its claws whilst they yet lay abed in their blankets…" He considered for a moment, then added; "oh, in actual fact it were five, counting Doyle. The horror snatched 'im up and run off with the poor beggar… I would suppose he's dead too."_

 _Arachnae took a couple of stiff steps over to the nearest paw-print, regretting Ranim's absence, both in supplying a steady arm to lean upon and a valued subordinate who could intercede with these brigand scum on her behalf, so that she would not be required to. The roaring and screaming erupting from the vicinity of the Darkfriend's campfires had awakened her, true, but given the far more important matters that currently occupied her, having to investigate an attack by one of the Blight's numerous monstrosities was onerous. Even so… the warped fauna and flora of the Great Blight had always interested her…_

 _Arachnae peered down at the clawed imprint pressed deep into the ground, the Andoran Darkfriend helpfully moving the flaming brand closer, illuminating the monster's trail. She tried to estimate the size of the unknown creature from its large tracks, coming to the conclusion that it must have been huge. "What did the monster look like?" Arachnae wondered idly._

" _Horrible!" answered the Andorman promptly, belatedly adding; "uh… Dread Lady…"_

" _Mistress Kirikil will do." Arachnae leaned closer. "I have not seen spoor like this before. Something new, no doubt, spawned by the Great Blight. Ever does the twisted realm of the Shadow produce fresh abominations…" She sighed regretfully. "I would that I had viewed the creature personally, been afforded the opportunity to study its behaviour…" Noting that the Shadowsworn Andoran was dubiously shaking his head back and forth in response to this desire, Arachnae shifted her musing tones to something more threatening. "Stop doing that!" The Darkfriend blanched, but Arachnae noted a hint of curiosity in his watery eyes, which flicked toward the dank darkness of the Blight speculatively. "What is it?" she demanded._

" _I... which I were just wondering, Mistress Kirikil? Doyle… the monster carried him off with it… think you that he may still be alive?"_

 _Arachnae smiled coldly. "Only if he is extremely_ unlucky! _"_

 _The Andorman blinked once more, then shrugged. "I guess he's dead, then." Clearly, he did not much care, either way._

 _Arachnae summoned a vague image of the unfortunate Doyle in her mind's eye… a thickset, bearded brute from Katar, the erstwhile leader of the Darkfriend contingent in Ranim's absence… "Who commands your squalid fraternity now?" she enquired, with little actual interest._

 _The Andoran swordsman jerked a dirty thumb at his broad chest. "Which I do, Mistress Kirikil, since I were Doyle's second."_

" _Oh? And do you have a name?"_

" _I does, Mistress. Ferd Hopwil, at your service." Ferd bobbed in servile fashion, then added confidingly; "which they calls me; 'Four Kings Ferd' on account of how I were born and raised in-"_

" _Four Kings?" Arachnae drawled with a measure of irony, raising a wispy, silver eyebrow. Ferd nodded hesitantly. "Tell me, Four Kings Ferd; do you know how your hometown came by its distinctive name?"_

 _Ferd Hopwil nodded again, with greater confidence. "Aye, Mistress Kirikil… 'twas where an old Queen of Andor defeated four foreign rulers in some long-ago battle… she took their surrender on the site of Four Kings."_

" _Very good!" Arachnae encouraged the new leader of the Darkfriends, and he grinned and ducked his head bashfully. Her eyes glazed a little as she recalled events from her distant youth. She adopted a lecturing tone; "Queen Maragaine, as was… in the one-thousandth and sixty-third Free Year, she humbled Kings Roalde of Murandy, Shaffier of Caralain, Telamanes of Cairhein and…" Arachnae frowned, attempting to remember, "…and… yes, of course… the fourth was King Atoth of Kintara, which no longer exists, anymore than Caralain does." Arachnae eyed Ferd neutrally, he had clasped his hands before him, was doing his best to appear respectfully interested in her recollections. "Naturally, this is all recorded in the various histories of Andor, but I was personally told the tale by someone who was actually_ there _, at the Battle of the Crossroads, in the latter days of the War of a Hundred Years. One of my tutors in the White Tower, Sarenda Sedai. She was somewhat senescent by then, but yet recalled a time when she served as advisor to Queen Maragaine of House Casalain. An arrogant, headstrong woman apparently, even in comparison with the lamentable standards of most Royalty…"_

 _Four Kings Ferd was gaping at Arachnae… she did not require the odious talent possessed by her mind-reading Zomara to guess that he was clearly wondering how_ old _she was. Arachnae smiled thinly, exposing her full set of teeth, about to say something cutting… but then, Ferd's gaze moved beyond her warily and he touched the hilt of the long, curved blade sheathed at his side._

 _Arachnae glanced over her shoulder. A Myrddraal was emerging from the night with serpentine grace, flanked by a dozen hulking, lumbering Trollocs. The Lurk regarded the two Friends of the Dark with the usual loathing. "Yes?" Arachnae enquired, contemptuously._

 _The Myrddraal's voice gusted from its grim mouth like foul air escaping an accursed sepulchre. "We tracked the creature back into the Blight."_

" _Make your report then, Halfman."_

 _The Myrddraal obeyed, albeit with evident reluctance. "There was no sign of the beast which slew the humans… the trail led into a swamp. I sent two of my scouts in to search… they did not return. We heard them screaming. Briefly. That is all."_

 _Arachnae shrugged, unconcerned. It seemed that this mysterious monster of the Blight relished Trolloc flesh as much as it did human. Well, Shadowspawn scouts or Darkfriend brigands were equally expendable in Arachnae's opinion, which in her estimation, was the only opinion that remotely mattered._

" _Did you f _ _ _ _ind any trace of Doyle?" Ferd asked the Myrddraal, keeping his hand on his hilt._____

 _The Myrddraal stared at the Darkfriend silently, and Arachnae noted that the compact Andoran swordsman evinced little trace of fear at its forbidding, eyeless gaze. Instead of troubling to answer, the Nightrider gestured impatiently with a gauntlet-swathed hand. One of its Trollocs, a towering, eagle-beaked aberration with a stiff crest of feathers arising from its large, misshapen skull, promptly held aloft a torn, blood-soaked boot, traces of gold-threaded embroidery worked into the besmirched leather. Part of a dismembered foot appeared to still be inside._

 _Four Kings Ferd nodded sagely. "Aye, that's Doyle's boot, alright… used to polish 'em up nice every eve, he did." There was little regret in his voice._

 _Arachnae smiled faintly. Well, the untimely demise of Captain Doyle had engendered something of a promotion for Ferd who, like all Friends of the Dark, was presumably ambitious. Amongst the ranks of the Shadow, advancement invariably required the removal of those who stood higher, whether by accident or intention. Still… Arachnae had always held the firm belief that before one assumed a position of power and responsibility, one must first prove oneself capable. A test was in order._

" _Master Hopwil, you are a proficient killer, I take it?"_

 _Ferd's brow furrowed. "Profish..?" he muttered, confusedly._

"Proficient. _It means; to be_ good _at something!" Arachnae snapped._

 _Ferd's expression cleared. "Oh, aye, I've slain more than my fair share in service to the Great Lord, Mistress Kirikil."_

" _Nonetheless, I shall require a demonstration of your skills." Arachnae turned to the Myrddraal. "Command your best fighter to stand forth, Halfman."_

 _The Myrddraal continued to frown, but beneath the Dread Lady's unwavering, gimlet gaze, it had little choice but to obey. The Fade turned to the Trolloc looming to its right, a massive, wolf-muzzled Beastman, standing poised on scaly, spurred feet. The Myrddraal jerked its head curtly and the wolfish Trolloc stepped obediently forward, grinning savagely, running a long tongue over sharp teeth and flexing powerful, hairy arms._

 _Ferd eyed the Trolloc flatly, seemingly unconcerned that his opponent stood near twice as tall as he. "You want me to kill that wolf thing?" he asked quietly, with soft menace._

 _Arachnae nodded. "I want you to_ try _." Ferd shrugged, planted the fire-brand upright in the sandy soil, then unbuckled his sheathed sword and laid it on the ground beside the burning torch. Arachnae raised her eyebrows. "You do not intend to use your blade?" she enquired, noting that there was a tarnished Heron-mark set into the hilt._

 _Ferd shook his head, not taking his pale blue eyes from the Trolloc he was to duel. "Tis too fine a sword for such quick work, Mistress Kirikil. Took it off a Whitecloak Lordling, I did, after I knifed 'im. I'll not besmirch my best blade with mere beast blood…" While speaking, he drew a pair of heavy, studded gauntlets from his belt and pulled them on, opening and closing his fingers. He eyed the Myrddraal coldly. "I stand ready, Lurk. Say the word."_

 _The Myrddraal turned to the towering, wolf-like Trolloc and hissed; "kill the human worm," in the Shadow-tongue. The Trolloc's grin widened, then its horribly human, bloodshot eyes narrowed menacingly and it loped forward, drawing a cruel, barbed blade from the scabbard at its broad back, whirling the weapon above its hairy head. The fearsome sword was almost as long as Ferd was tall, but he showed no concern, stepping purposefully up to meet his enormous assailant._

 _The wolf-Trolloc was deceptively fast for its size, swiftly sweeping its lethal blade at Ferd's neck, but the Darkfriend proved faster, ducking deftly beneath the whirling sword. The Trolloc snarled, shifted to a two-handed grip and chopped downwards – Ferd slipped swiftly to one side and the weapon struck the ground where he had stood. Growling angrily, the Trolloc drew back the heavy blade for a further stroke… and Ferd promptly kicked it hard in the stomach, his booted foot sinking into the creature's fur-swathed midriff. A gush of rank air erupted from the wolfish muzzle and the Trolloc doubled over, uttering a wheezing howl of distress. Ferd took the opportunity to viciously backhand his adversary across its hairy face, the studs on his gauntlet breaking skin and leaving blood-trails. The Trolloc roared wrathfully as it got its breath back, violently swiping at the human with its barbed weapon, but Ferd rolled away from the powerful blow and sprang to his feet beyond the deadly range of the sword, standing calmly, watching his opponent closely. Waiting._

 _The furious Trolloc lunged forward, blade raised... but then staggered, coming to an unsteady halt. Its eyes widened and it made a low, whining sound. Then, black froth erupted from its toothy maw and the lupine monstrosity dropped its sword, clutching at its throat, then collapsed face-down like a felled tree. It thrashed briefly, clawed feet scraping at the sandy soil, hairy hands clenching convulsively, then lay still._

 _Ferd stood over his dead foe, expressing satisfaction. Arachnae joined him. "Poison?" Ferd nodded, raising a gauntlet for her inspection. Arachnae noted that a clear, glistening substance coated the sharp studs that lined the knuckles._

" _Tis called 'Wormwood' Dread Lady," Four Kings Ferd explained, "hard to come by, flaming expensive too, but well worth the cost." Ferd grinned broadly, revealing a gap between his front teeth. "I'm just a little fellow next to one of these great brutes…" he gave the corpse a kick for emphasis, "…so it pays to even the odds a little."_

 _Arachnae nodded thoughtfully. "It would seem that there is more to you than meets the eye, Four Kings Ferd." Ferd blushed at the perceived praise. "Now, retrieve your sword and return to the camp… tell your men to make ready." Arachnae smiled icily. "They may be going on a long journey, soon enough."_

 _Ferd slipped off the deadly gauntlets and touched a knuckle to his brow, then stooped to grab his blade and the flaming torch. Before departing, he glanced at the Myrddraal and grinned insolently. The Fade was staring at him spitefully whilst two of its Trollocs approached their fallen comrade, drawing wicked knives from their belts, preparing to butcher the dead meat for consumption. "I wouldn't eat that one, if I were you," Ferd cautioned them, cheerfully, "the poison's in his blood… you'll get gut-ache at the very least!" Chuckling, Ferd hurried away into the night._

 _Arachnae watched him go, the light of his fire-brand diminishing into the darkness. Strange for a man to use poison, given that it was more usually considered a woman's weapon. Her old tutor, Sarenda Napaline, had been fond of utilising a variety of deadly substances in the course of her duties… ostensibly of the Grey Ajah, she had secretly belonged to the Black. The long-ago invasion of the nascent nation of Andor by combined armies of the quartet of foreign Kings had been the result of a plot of the Shadow, overseen by Sarenda in her position as Aes Sedai advisor at the Royal Court of Caemlyn. Yet somehow, the redoubtable Queen Maragaine had led her forces to victory on the then western borders of her land, over what should have been insurmountable odds. This unexpected triumph had upset Black Ajah plans considerably, and Sarenda Sedai had received a painful penance for her failure to properly curtail the Andoran Ruler._

 _Of course, Maragaine Casalain had inevitably paid a heavy price for her success. A decade later, Sarenda Sedai exacted her revenge upon the Queen she had so falsely served, poisoning her at a Royal banquet. Not with Wormwood though, but something far more difficult to detect or guard against. An exotic toxin with many names, though Arachnae's preferred term was 'Breyan's Evil.' She yet possessed some of this lethal substance, hidden away in her private supplies. Arachnae had used it on various of her enemies over the years… though her first victim had been the aged Sarenda herself._

 _The ancient and secretive Friend of the Dark had sent the young novice – whom she had been grooming to join the Black Ajah – for punishment over a minor infraction, and Arachnae had reacted to this unfair treatment by slipping some of her tutor's favourite deadly substance into the tea they were both drinking in the Grey Sister's study. Arachnae had taken the precaution of administering herself with the antidote first; Sarenda Sedai, of course, had not. Since Breyan's Evil left no trace of foul play upon a corpse, even when Delved with the One Power, it was assumed by all within the White Tower that the extremely elderly Aes Sedai had succumbed to death by natural causes. Arachnae knew better. Yes, poison was most definitely a weapon of subtlety…_

 _While the Trollocs dragged their dead comrade away, the Myrddraal stood in silence, watching Arachnae coldly, though no eyes to watch with. It watched anyway. Arachnae scowled at the Fade. "Is there some reason why you are still here, Halfman?" she asked, brusquely. She was weary, and wished to return to her bed, uncomfortable though it was.._

 _The Myrddraal opened its grimly-set mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a large raven, which flapped out of the darkness to perch upon its broad shoulder. The carrion bird cocked its head to one side as some wordless communication passed between it and the Fade. Then, with a loud caw, the raven launched itself up into the night sky, disappearing from sight._

" _What did it say?" Arachnae demanded._

 _The Myrddraal turned to her, pallid face hanging above its black garb and armour, disembodied by the darkness. "A message from the Library Courier," it reported, voice hollow and deathly, "the Tool of the Shadow requires that you join him on the shoreline, beside the arcane Stone. A matter of some import."_

 _Arachnae sighed. It seemed that she would get no sleep this night… She drew a long, silver whistle from her belt-pouch and blew it hard. No discernible sound emerged, but after an impatiently-endured delay, a chorus of beating wings approached in the night sky above, and eight Draghkar descended on leathery pinions, a large wicker basket lowered upon the long chains they held in their clawed hands, ultimately linked to iron collars locked about their skinny necks. The basket thumped to the ground and the Draghkar landed also, radiating about it, abasing themselves before Arachnae. She glared at them as she clambered awkwardly into her peculiar conveyance, addressing her bat-winged minions in the Shadow-tongue. "About time too!" Arachnae seated herself in the wooden armchair secured within the basket, grumbling under her breath as she rearranged the cushions, which were in their usual disarray._

 _The Myrddraal observed silently, then turned and paced sinuously away, following its Trollocs back to their watch-post. Arachnae impulsively made an obscene gesture at it, well-aware that even with its back turned to her, the Halfman would notice…_

" _To the beach!" Arachnae commanded the Draghkar who customarily bore her aloft, adding; "and don't shake me about, or I shall feed your worthless carcasses to that ravening monster of the Blight… clearly, whatever it is, it possesses a_ large _appetite!"_

 _As one, the Draghkar leapt into the air, wings beating hard, and the wicker basket lifted slowly from the ground, rising into the darkness. Arachnae gripped the arms of her chair tightly, wondering what Master Raven could possibly want with her at this inconvenient hour. The Courier rarely seemed to sleep, another result of his alteration into a living implement of the Shadow's will, as were his strange, completely black eyes…_

 _It was then that Arachnae noticed something of import. The ancient, platinum ter'angreal that she wore on one gnarled finger, the rare Call Ring of the Age of Legends… it was shining brightly. Glancing down at the approaching beach below, Arachnae further noted that the Portal Stone was glowing too, pulsing with a modicum of the arcane energy it employed to transfer one to distant places. And it was then that Arachnae heard a familiar disembodied voice, greeting her and relaying news. Entirely welcome news, at that. This had become something of a rarity..._

The Courier of the Shadow Library, having concluded his laborious lecture concerning what constituted a Gholam, had moved on to a more immediate topic. Arachnae blinked, focusing on his thin-lipped mouth, framed by a dark, neatly-trimmed beard. "Although I have obviously never performed this procedure with a Gholam, it should be within my abilities to restore its conditioning." The Courier's disturbing gaze moved to Arachnae. "This very morn, I practiced my craft upon your Zomara," he confided.

Arachnae scowled. "It is not _my_ Zomara!" she snapped, "I did not _ask_ for the accursed thing!"

" _What_ have you been practicing, Raven Man?" Zaradin enquired, eyeing the pale, androgynous Shadowspawn suspiciously. From its place behind Arachnae's chair, the Zomara smiled at him in a goading manner.

"The power of suggestion," the Courier stated, by way of brief explanation. He pointed a leisurely, manicured finger at the Myrddraal, stood in the corner, then raised his voice, commanding the servile yet insolent creature; "Zomara… _kill!_ "

At this order, the Zomara promptly dropped the teapot and streaked across the tent, its slender, black-clad form a blur as it closed upon its indicated target with lethal intent. The Myrddraal was serpent-swift as all of its dread kind and managed to jerk its dark, _Thakan'dar-_ forged sword from the scabbard as the Zomara made its sudden, unexpected attack… a lightning-fast strike should have decapitated its opponent and dealt with the threat there and then, but the Shadow-spawned servitor slipped lithely beneath the sweeping blade, before leaping and spinning, a pointed boot lashing out to kick the Fade in the side of the head. Snarling with rage, the Myrddraal fell back a step, momentarily off-balance. The Zomara landed lightly and crouched, preparing to continue its unanticipated assault.

By this; Arachnae had half-risen from her camp-chair, staring with astonishment, while Zaradin sprang to his feet, tugging his red veil down to reveal pointed, filed teeth, bared in a gape of savage surprise. "The Shadow-twisted _Gai'shain_ Dances with the Eyeless!" the _Samma N'Sei_ declared, truthfully if rather unnecessarily, since all present could clearly see what was transpiring within the tent. The Courier of the Shadow Library remained seated, watching the altercation with jet-black eyes, a small and satisfied smile twitching upon his thin lips.

Uttering a vile curse in the Trolloc-tongue, the Myrddraal rapidly lunged at the Zomara with its dark blade… but again, the slim, androgyne creature avoided the counter-attack with ease, dropping to all fours below the sword-point with cat-like grace, before swinging its legs around, entangling them with the Halfman's booted feet and wrenching, sending its opponent crashing to the floor. The Zomara arose fluidly, poised over the fallen Myrddraal, pale fingers clawed, preparing to pounce.

"Stop this nonsense!" Arachnae commanded, finally finding her voice amidst the extreme confusion over her irritating servant's odd behaviour.

In response, the Courier rose from his chair. "Zomara… _cease!_ " Immediately, the Zomara abandoned its feral posture, turning its back on the prone Myrddraal and stepping smoothly over to stand behind Arachnae's chair once more. She craned her wrinkly neck, watching it warily. The Myrddraal scrambled to its feet, the knuckles of the hand gripping its sword-hilt even paler than the rest of its corpse-pallid skin. It scowled venomously at the Zomara, but said nothing.

Arachnae did the talking instead. "What in the bloody, burning Pit is going on?" she demanded of the Courier, her dark, bird-like gaze fixed upon the Zomara, positioned placidly behind her. Its soulless eyes were somewhat glazed, its features slack. "It's a flaming _Zomara!_ The craven creatures aren't supposed to _attack_ people!"

"The Eyeless is not 'people,'" Zaradin muttered, earning a cold stare from the Myrddraal, but otherwise being ignored.

The Shadow Library Courier shrugged bony shoulders as he approached the ancient Friend of the Dark and her errant servant. "Indeed, Dread Lady. The Zomaran were never intended for battle, that is not their purpose, but with the correct stimulus, they can be taught to access certain martial techniques… and with the _suggestion_ I earlier alluded to, these creatures may be coerced into acting against their ingrained natures and employing such dormant skills in earnest." The Courier directed a thin smile at the scowling Myrddraal, adding; "with deadly consequences for their victims."

" _The Zomara would not have succeeded in slaying me,_ " the Myrddraal hissed in sepulchral tones, " _their kind are weak, useless, little better than humans… had you not called it off, I should have taken its head._ "

If Arachnae did not know better, she might have imagined that the Halfman almost sounded… petulant. Sulky, even. She returned her regard to the Zomara, noting that it was not smirking for once. Indeed, it conveyed no expression at all…

The Courier cleared his throat pointedly, attracting Arachnae's attention once more. "I surmised that if I could alter the behaviour of a Zomara, I might do likewise with the Gholam, restoring its original behavioural conditioning."

"I take your point, Master Raven," Arachnae reluctantly concurred, "it would seem that you have a talent for emplacing emphatic commands within Shadowspawn." She squinted at the Zomara suspiciously. "What is wrong with the accursed thing? It is just standing there, staring into space, as though entranced."

"Oh, it _is_ in a trance," the Courier smugly confirmed.

"Well, restore the Zomara to what meagre semblance of normality it can manage, then!"

The Courier nodded, then snapped his fingers before the Zomara's blank face. "Zomara… _resume!_ "

Immediately, the Zomara made a quivering motion, an expression of confusion flickering briefly over its usually impassive features. It glanced down around its pointed boots, taking note of the damp puddle of spilled tea, the scattered shards of striped crockery. "Did I do that?" it mumbled.

"Yes!" Arachnae spat, "clumsy oaf! You owe me a new teapot… now clean up the mess and get out!"

The Zomara blinked slowly, and muttered; "at once, Mistress," before obeying.

Arachnae then addressed the Myrddraal; "tell the men to make ready, Halfman." The Fade glowered, nodded curtly, then stalked out of the tent, promptly fading into the encroaching evening shadows. The wind continued to gust outside, though appeared to have died down a little.

After the Zomara had slipped outside, damp rags and china fragments cradled in its pale hands, Zaradin eyed the Courier of the Shadow Library curiously. "How did you do that, Raven Man?" the _Samma N'Sei_ wondered, "making the effete, Shadow-wrought _Gai'shain_ join the Dance as though born to it? What skill can this be? It is _not_ a thing of the Power, I sense no such ability in you…" He tugged his veil back up into place, continuing to stare questioningly at the Courier.

The Courier shook his head patiently. "It is accomplished by a technique termed; _hypnosis_ ," he revealed.

Zaradin blinked. "Hip- _what?_ "

"Never mind that!" Arachnae snarled, "I tire of this constant exposition. Our time grows short. The tide will be coming back in soon, the Portal Stone covered by the waves before we can use it." _Or_ I _can use it_ , Arachnae considered privately, by no means anticipating the coming test of her Power. But it had to be done. There was opportunity enough yet… and besides, Zaradin asked too many questions, she did not wish him to glean details of Master Raven's abilities, most especially if the _Samma N'Sei_ was indeed a spy for Ishamael. Well, she would discover the truth of that soon enough...

As for the Gholam, Arachnae strongly doubted that the Betrayer of Hope would approve of the use she meant to put the deadly creature to, or of her even utilising it in the first place. But in its current reconditioned state, the Gholam was certainly of little good to her, or her plans. That much had been explained on the previous night, when brief communication with her minions beyond the Portal Stone had been established. And this was where Master Raven entered the picture. It seemed that he could practice methodology whereby the Gholam might be restored to its previous, lethal persona, to once more make of it a deadly agent and assassin of the Shadow.

The man in question - if he still counted as a man - chose this moment to intrude on Arachnae's considerations, a querulous tone to the Courier's precise speech. "Whilst I value the opportunity to study the Gholam, to attempt alteration of these new behavioural patterns imposed by this traitor Aes Sedai of the Last Age, I greatly fear for the safety of the research tomes placed in my charge…"

 _You should fear more than just that, Friend,_ Arachnae thought to herself, eyeing the gaunt, patronising fellow with distaste.

The Courier did not notice, but continued; "several of these reference volumes are irreplaceable, and since they were entrusted to me, the responsibility-"

"Is _mine_ ," Arachnae interrupted impatiently, "do not trouble yourself over the Portal Stone books, Master Raven, I have arranged that my Draghkar return them to the Shadow Library forthwith." Oddly enough, Arachnae meant every word, a rare occurrence for one so long schooled in falsehood and treachery. She held great respect for such valuable scholarly works, though very little regard for he who had so reluctantly brought them to her.

The Courier frowned. " _Draghkar?_ Those moronic creatures had best not drop my books into the Blight," he grumbled.

"They most certainly shall not," Arachnae assured him, "for terror of the dire consequences that would befall them should they fail me." Seeing that the Courier required further reassurance, she added; "be not concerned, the Draghkar well-know the way to the Library of the Shadow… they have been there before, at my behest."

The Courier's frown did not waver, he clearly held little faith in the ability of bat-winged, mentally-challenged Shadowspawn to properly return library books…

Arachnae repressed a sigh, smiling sweetly. "Had you not best go and prepare for your journey, Master Raven?" she suggested, though both knew that it was no mere suggestion.

"As you say, Dread Lady," the Courier murmured, sketching a faint bow and turning toward the exit of the tent, his dark robes swirling about stork-like legs.

 _Fly away, my squawking raven,_ Arachnae silently commented, _you shall likely never see your precious Library again… not in this life, at least._

Zaradin began to pace out after the Courier, but Arachnae placed a restraining hand on his arm, causing him to flinch warily. As Master Raven departed, murderous green eyes above a red veil turned to Arachnae with cautious curiosity. "One moment, good Zaradin," Arachnae said quietly, "I have something for you…" She yet held _saidar_ and swiftly cast a privacy weave about the tent, tying-off the flows. Zaradin shivered slightly in reaction to the channeling. Arachnae glanced at the various clutter scattered about her canvas-walled quarters. "It is in here somewhere, methinks… now, where did I-?"

"Here, Mistress."

Arachnae jumped, whirling to glare at the returned Zomara, standing just inside the tent, smirking. It held a small, sandalwood box in its delicate hands.

"Curse you!" Arachnae hissed, "always sneaking up on me… I should have let the Halfman slice you into little bits!" The Zomara ceased smirking, soulless eyes blinking confusedly. Clearly, it retained no memory of the encounter with the Myrddraal, triggered by the Courier's conditioning. Arachnae sighed. "I thought I told you to get out?" she added.

The Zomara shrugged. "You did not specify for _how long_ I should get out, Mistress," it reminded Arachnae, raising its carved, wooden burden. "You wanted this, I believe?"

"You know perfectly well that I do!" Arachnae snapped, snatching the box, "by rudely peering inside of my head and discerning my intentions! Insolent creature!"

"As you say, Mistress," the Zomara responded smoothly, before enquiring; "do you require anything else?"

Arachnae thought about it, then smiled nastily. "Yes… I require you to go down to the shore and stick your empty head into the Dead Sea!"

"At once, Mistress." A graceful bow, then the Zomara departed the tent silently, moving with its habitual disturbing, inhuman grace.

Arachnae sneered. "Hopefully, it will drown," she muttered spitefully, well-knowing that the Zomara almost certainly would not. Despite their outwardly frail appearance, the Zomaran were notoriously difficult to kill. But she would find a way, ere long…

"You said that you had something for me, Dread One?" Zaradin reminded Arachnae, his curious gaze fixed on the box that she now held.

"I do indeed," Arachnae confirmed, flipping back the lid. Inside; encased in purple velvet padding, rested a length of some dark, glass-like substance, fashioned into the shape of a twisted blade. "This is an _angreal_ ," Arachnae explained, "an artefact attuned to _saidin_ that will greatly magnify the strength of your channeling." She smiled coldly. "Use it well, Zaradin of the _Samma N'Sei_ , in service to my goals."

Zaradin's green eyes widened a little. "You give this to me?" he wondered.

Arachnae shrugged. "Well, yes… why not? It's intended for a male-channeler, so it isn't as though it is much use to myself, after all…"

"A Princely gift!" Zaradin observed.

"Well, I am nothing if not generous," Arachnae responded modestly, anecdotally adding; "tis said this _angreal_ once belonged to Yurian Stonebow himself, he who lived long before even my times, in the final years of the Trolloc Wars. The False Dragon reportedly used this device as an aid in slaying numerous enemies, including several of those Aes Sedai fools of the Red Ajah, sent from the White Tower to take him captive…"

"I shall make attempt to do likewise!" Zaradin replied, with deadly enthusiasm. He reached out to take the dark, twisted _angreal_ as Arachnae prized it from the box. It was much heavier than an object of its small size should have been, and as Arachnae passed it to Zaradin, her fingers fumbled and she dropped the ancient device to the tent floor.

"Oops! Silly me…" Arachnae made to stoop and retrieve the fallen _angreal_ , but then groaned, straightening and rubbing the small of her back.

"Let me, Dread One," Zaradin offered, crouching to pick up the knife- _angreal_ from where it lay, glistening dully on the threadbare rug.

Arachnae had not released _saidar_ , the Power that filled her augmented considerably by the potent _sa'angreal_ concealed in her belt-pouch. She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the back of Zaradin's lowered head, and in the Shadowrunning Aielman's moment of distraction, she _struck_. Arachnae Kirikil had been using the dark arts of Compulsion for a very long time and was extremely adept at forcing others to comply with her devious designs… though to his credit, Zaradin put up a respectable fight, managing to seize _saidin_ in his defence before he was violently Shielded from the Source. After which, it was but the work of a few short moments for the ancient Darkfriend channeler to bend the ensorcelled _Samma N'Sei_ to her malevolent will. When it was done, Zaradin stood before Arachnae, arms hanging limply at his sides, eyes staring yet unseeing. Arachnae reached up and tugged the Eye Blinder's red veil down, revealing slack, expressionless features.

"Can you hear me, Zaradin?" Arachnae enquired, employing the raised tones most usually utilised with the slow of intellect or hard of hearing.

"Yes, I hear you... Wise One." Zaradin's voice was flat, emotionless… well, it usually was, to be honest. Only now, even more so.

"Good. So, tell me; why were you and the other _Samma N'Sei_ assigned to my command?"

"To assist you in your duties."

"Indeed? Did not Ishamael wish for you to observe me, to report back to him?"

Zaradin shook his head slowly. "No."

Arachnae's brow furrowed. "You mean, you are _not_ a spy for Ishamael?"

"The group of _Samma N'Sei_ with whom I am associated do not serve Ishamael, though the three of us sent here were commanded to say that we did. Our allegiance is to another of the Chosen."

Arachnae's confusion increased. "Oh? _Whom?_ "

"Our Shadow Chief is he who took the name 'Demandred.'"

Arachnae stared at Zaradin, held fast in the grip of Compulsion. " _Demandred?_ Why would _he_ take an interest in my search for the Dragonspawn, my revenge upon those White Tower strumpets?! _Tell me!_ "

After a brief pause, Zaradin answered in a hollow, toneless voice; "the Chosen Demandred does not concern himself with your petty retribution… his preoccupation lies with this faraway land to which your enemy escaped."

Arachnae blinked. "But _why?_ "

"The Chieftain of the _Samma N'Sei_ is concerned with distant territories where he might recruit allies to swell the Shadow's ranks, and fight for the Great Lord in the coming Final Dance, at _Tarmon Gai'don_. This 'Land of Madmen' is one of Demandred's lesser areas for the exploration of such possibilities, which is why he sent so few of us to you, Wise One." Zaradin closed his mouth, and Arachnae was about to ask a further question, but then the _Samma N'Sei_ abruptly spoke again; "our Chief's key goal exists to the east, I am told, though I know not where. Shara, mayhap?"

" _Shara?_ "

"Where the silk comes from."

"I _know_ where the flaming silk comes from, thank you very much!" Arachnae considered this information frenetically, whilst Zaradin stood silent, swaying slightly. So, Ishamael had _not_ sent the Shadowsworn Aielmen to watch her, hadn't despatched them at all, it would seem. It had been Demandred, all along… Barid Bel Medar, as was. There were few alive in these times familiar with _that_ name, but Arachnae was one of them. This was about _all_ that she knew, however. But for his reputed hatred of the Dragon, Arachnae possessed little lore concerning this particular member of the Great Lord's Chosen… no-one did. Demandred had always been something of an enigma.

Abandoning the fruitless interrogation, Arachnae stooped to retrieve the dark _angreal_ from the rug, not troubling to feign back-ache this time, for all that she experienced a very real twinge in her spine even so. She tucked the glassy, blade-shaped device through Zaradin's belt, and for good measure, picked up the spear that the _Samma N'Sei_ had dropped when she struck him with the complex weaves of Compulsion. She placed the weapon in one limp hand, firmly closing the Aielman's fingers about the haft.

Arachnae took a deep breath. "Now, listen to me carefully, young Zaradin. You are to forget this entire incident, neglecting to recall that I compelled you to speak… put it from your brutish mind. But there is one instruction that I _do_ wish you to remember, when the time is right. This task concerns our Friend from the Shadow Library…" Zaradin attended to Arachnae's ensuing words intently and obediently. In his current Compulsed state, he had little choice but to do so…

A time later, Arachnae Kirikil stood at the edge of the Dead Sea, gazing moodily upon the ancient, crumbling column of the Portal Stone. A zephyr whipped her shawl about her bony shoulders, but she ignored the wind, preoccupied with something else… the Stone. She was beginning to seriously detest this arcane artefact, which had bulked so large in her life of late. Advancing waves, churned white by the strong winds coming in off the sea, were beginning to lap around its base… though the double row of weathered symbols carved into the circumference remained fully visible, if not entirely legible. Arachnae frowned. It would have better suited her had the Portal Stone been entirely covered by these turgid waters, a welcome respite until the column was again revealed to sight, but it was not to be. It was now or never. The game was begun in earnest and she yet had further stones to set upon the board...

With this factor in mind, Arachnae glanced away from the Portal Stone to where two-score Darkfriend armsmen stood assembled, further up the beach. In addition to their assortment of weaponry, the roughly-garbed men had rolled blankets and other paraphernalia stowed upon their backs. Well, they did not quite total forty now, there were not so many as there had been when these levies, mostly from Katar and Bandar Eban, had first arrived. The perilous proximity of the Great Blight had taken its toll on their numbers, not just in the previous night's attack by the ravening monstrosity, but in other, similarly lethal incidents. These Friends were mostly city-dwellers, unused to the wilder places of the world, ill-equipped to deal with the many dangers of the Blight. Still, there were surely enough of them left to suit her purposes… Ranim required additional men, and she would see to it that he got them.

When Arachnae had turned her attention to these Shadowsworn individuals, several pairs of furtive eyes that had been watching her cautiously were hastily lowered, but the compact, muscular swordsman who led this company continued to meet her gaze, with polite expectancy. Arachnae beckoned with a gnarled finger. "Master Hopwil. Come here, if you please…"

Ferd Hopwil hurried over to his Mistress, touching a respectful knuckle to his forelock. "Yes, Dread Lady?"

Arachnae took a sealed, folded parchment from her belt-pouch and passed it to the Darkfriend Captain; he took it and tucked it into his woollen coat without looking at it. "Give that to Ranim, when you see him." Arachnae shrugged her stooped shoulders. " _If_ you see him. Nothing is certain with these accursed Stones, after all."

Ferd blinked, then nodded hesitantly. "Aye, Mistress Kirikil. Anything more you want relayed, by word of mouth?"

Arachnae considered, then smiled a brittle smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "Yes. Tell my Bonded assassin that I am most gratified at his having located the Gholam, he has excelled himself, as ever... and with or without my aid, I do hope that he soon finds the Song."

Ferd nodded again, mild confusion reigning over his homely, deceptively placid features. In the long years of her existence, Arachnae had known many servants of the Shadow akin to this Andoran killer, men and women with an air of detachment disguising their true, atavistic natures… the wildness beneath the mildness, so to speak. Such individuals always proved to be the more capable of operatives, but also made for the most troublesome opponents. Arachnae reached into the embroidered knitting-bag hanging over her shoulder and half-pulled a dark, velvet sack from it, causing a muted clinking sound as heavy, metallic links shifted inside. She paused, considering.

Ferd eyed the sack curiously. "Something else to deliver to the Tin- to _Ranim_ , Mistress Kirikil?"

Arachnae came to the decision to not play _all_ of her cards just yet and stuffed the velvet sack back into the bag. She shook her head decisively. "No… no, the Gholam alone should be enough to counter the Dragonspawn. That and the aid of my enigmatic new ally…" Arachnae realised that she was musing aloud and narrowed her eyes at Ferd, who flinched. "Never you mind, nosey! Tell your men to assemble around the stone column. It is time. Be off with you, Four Kings Ferd!"

Again, Ferd touched a hasty knuckle to his forelock, before hurrying back to his command, shouting orders at the Darkfriends. As one, they began to make their reluctant way down to the Portal Stone, giving their Dread Mistress a wide berth.

Along a low rise beyond; a half-dozen Myrddraal stood in line, watching. The forceful gusts of wind did not move their cloaks by so much as an inch, the dark cloth draped about them remaining eerily still. A double-Fist of Trollocs crouched behind the Fades in an untidy mob, waiting. Arachnae ignored her Shadowspawn minions for the time being… they would not be going with the others, she required them to stay behind and ensure her protection, much as it irked her to admit it, even if only to herself. The Myrddraal and their Trollocs would guard the camp from intruders, including any further monstrosities of the Blight that might venture forth from the dank forest beyond the beach. Arachnae could accomplish these defensive tasks very well herself, of course, but while she had left her humanity behind long ago, she was not entirely immune to the frailties of mortality… even she needed to sleep, from time to time. The Great Blight, on the other hand, _never_ slept.

Movement in the corner of her eye and Arachnae turned, watching as the Courier of the Shadow Library paced down the beach toward her, arms crossed before him, hands tucked into the capacious sleeves of his dark robe. The Zomara stepped lithely just behind, something wrapped in a silk scarf cradled between its pale fingers. As they stopped before her, Arachnae frowned at the Courier, who inclined his head slightly; then scowled at the Zomara, which gracefully bowed low. Her bird-like eyes moved to the wrapped package that the Shadowspawn servant held. "What-?" she began to ask.

The Zomara naturally knew what Arachnae was going to say before she had finished saying it, and answered presumptively; "a teapot, Mistress." It smiled slyly, whisked the silken scarf away, revealing a round container with handle, lid and spout.

Arachnae – albeit reluctantly – had to admit that it was a very _fine_ teapot, beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl over the entirety of its delicately ornate surface. "That looks like Sea Folk porcelain," she muttered, peering closer, before exclaiming; "it _is!_ Fancy! Wherever did you find it, Zomara?"

"Packed in an oaken chest, washed-up on the shore," the Zomara answered smoothly, with an ingratiating leer, before confiding; "there are many items of interest to be found hereabouts, lost from wrecked ships and presumably carried hither upon the Ocean currents…"

"Well, I am glad that you seem to have found yourself a hobby," Arachnae remarked to the beach-combing Zomara, somewhat mollified, before glaring anew at the irritating creature; "in addition to your favourite pastime of _annoying_ me! And besides, you _did_ -"

"Break your other teapot, Mistress."

"And I-"

"Said that you were owed a new one… and here it is, Mistress!" The Zomara raised the teapot and smirked, evidently pleased with itself.

Arachnae prodded a finger into the Zomara's narrow chest. "If you dare interrupt me again, I shall skin you alive… if you even _are_ alive, you dead-eyed, soulless abomination!" The Zomara obediently pressed its lips together and fell silent, while still managing to look smug. Arachnae sighed. "Oh, just go and make some bloody tea, you aggravating abomination! I expect that I shall _need_ some, ere long…"

The Zomara wisely did not choose to answer verbally, merely bowed smoothly again, before moving gracefully away to do as it was bid. Arachnae scowled at the creature's back as it departed, then shifted her attention to the Courier of the Shadow Library, who had ignored this ill-tempered exchange in favour of staring with his strange, black eyes at the waiting Portal Stone. The two-score Darkfriends now stood assembled around it, their boots immersed in the shallow surf, nervously eyeing the ancient artefact whilst shifting from foot to foot and fidgeting with their weaponry.

"Master Raven?" Arachnae murmured.

The Courier spoke softly, without removing his gaze from the crumbling column. "Even in the Age of Legends, it remained a mystery whence the Portal Stones originated, who constructed these arcane devices, and why…"

"I mislike conundrums," Arachnae muttered darkly, before enquiring; "your precious books… they are..?"

The Courier turned to Arachnae, nodding stiffly. "On their way back to the Shadow Library." He glanced up at the sky behind Arachnae and pointed a long finger. "Ah. There they go now."

Arachnae turned to look, beheld eight dark shapes rising over the forest in the distance, bat-wings beating steadily, a bulkier object suspended on long chains between them… the Draghkar, bearing the antique texts in her wicker basket. The flapping Shadowspawn turned north, a black speck that proved to be a raven flying before them, leading the way.

"I told your Draghkar to follow the flight of the Shadow-eye," the Courier explained, "they are notoriously stupid creatures, and might lose their way, else."

Arachnae frowned at the Courier, who failed to notice. Having the temerity to command _her_ Draghkar? Insufferable man! She collected herself and spoke levelly; "well, if you are _quite_ ready, Master Raven, perhaps you might be so good as to join the others?" The Courier indicated his assent and side-by-side, they walked down toward the Portal Stone. "Where in the Pit is Zaradin?" Arachnae wondered aloud as they did so.

"I am here, Dread One."

Arachnae jumped, turning and glaring up at the tall _Samma N'Sei_ who had materialised at her side with his customary disturbing stealth. "Now _that_ is something I shall certainly not miss when you are gone, Aielman," she growled, examining him closely. Zaradin did not evince any residual effects of the Compulsion she had earlier cast on him, as far as she could see, but it was hard to be sure. Well, time would tell.

Zaradin did not respond to Arachnae's jibe, merely fell-in beside her, pacing along with feral grace, predatory green eyes scanning his surroundings from above the red veil, taking in the Portal Stone and the Darkfriend brigands grouped around it. "We do not need these pitiful Wetlanders," he observed disparagingly, "you should just send the Raven Man and myself through the rock of journeying, Dread One."

"Ranim told me that he has lost several of his men to various dangers," Arachnae commented neutrally, "this Land of the Madmen is a perilous place, by all accounts." She concealed her anger at having her orders challenged, adding; "commensurately, he requires reinforcements." She sighed. "Besides, our supplies have dwindled considerably of late, I cannot feed these hungry mouths indefinitely, for all that _hungrier_ mouths have fed upon _them_ , so must send this rabble elsewhere. They may even prove of use." Arachnae did not sound as though she particularly believed this.

Zaradin made a doubtful, snorting sound behind his veil, which Arachnae chose to ignore. Four Kings Ferd took a step forward as they reached the Portal Stone, addressing Arachnae whilst his watery blue eyes watched the _Samma N'Sei_ carefully. "My men stand ready, Mistress Kirikil, as do I."

"Good." Arachnae slipped a hand into her belt-pouch and withdrew the weighty bar of blackened crystal, her _sa'angreal_. "It is time. Everybody stand as close to the Portal Stone as possible."

The Darkfriends shuffled nearer to the ancient, weathered column, pressing together, though a wider space was maintained around both Zaradin and the Shadow Library Courier; the one because he was a deadly, channeling Aielman, the other due to the fact that he had strange eyes and a stranger manner and was considered by the Shadowsworn brigands to be a harbinger of ill-luck. Arachnae took a deep breath, moving back a few paces and raising the _sa'angreal_. With the ease of long practice, _saidar_ flowed into her, magnified ten-fold by the crystalline device she held, filling her with the One Power until she thought that she might burst asunder. Even so, Arachnae well-knew that in order to transport so many through the Portal Stone, this could still comprise barely enough of the True Source to accomplish the task at hand. She proved to be entirely correct in this estimation… what came next was punishing, even for an adept of the One Power with her great skill and strength.

After what seemed an eternity, Arachnae opened her dark eyes, which to aid her concentration she had kept tightly shut throughout the extended ordeal of channeling huge amounts of _saidin_ -fuelled Power into the Portal Stone. A trickle of blood ran down her chin from where she had sunk her front teeth into her lower lip. Her head was spinning, and pounding painfully. Blinking away the double-vision that distorted her sight, she became aware that Zaradin, the Courier, Ferd and the rest of the Darkfriends were no longer assembled around the stone column, which pulsed with gradually fading light before becoming quiescent, its function complete. Her tools were gone, presumably sent to the faraway Stone whose symbol she had kept uppermost in her mind throughout the process. Arachnae's final pieces had been placed upon the game board, and it remained only to see if this had been winning move or futile gambit.

Drawing in a deep breath, Arachnae smiled with satisfaction… a smile that faded and became a grimace as a wave of dizzy blackness rose to inexorably engulf her mind and senses. She was distantly aware of swaying, staggering, then toppling forward in a dead faint. The sand and shingle beneath her feet swept up to meet her and for a timeless interval, Arachnae knew no more of the waking world…

 _Mere seconds or an eternity later, Arachnae Kirikil found herself floating within an infinite emptiness, void bereft of form. She knew instantly that her surroundings must be some aspect of Tel'aran'rhiod, since her familiarity with the Dream World was born from many centurie's worth of experience... but at the same time, this featureless environment seemed entirely unknown and unknowable. A staggering expanse of unrelieved blackness stretching out on all sides, not even punctuated by the bright points of light that were indicative of sleeping souls, those who visited the World of Dreams involuntarily._

 _Arachnae had barely begun to consider this phenomenon when awareness dawned that she herself lacked physicality and substance, presently existing only as a disembodied consciousness. "Unusual!" Arachnae declared, the echoing sound of her voice both comforting and disconcerting._

" _Ah, there you are, Maigret," spake another voice in all-too familiar shrill tones, before enquiring; "what in particular do you find so unusual, might I ask?"_

 _Arachnae truculently ignored the question, recognising the unseen speaker by both his cadences and the fact that she had been addressed in the dark tongue of the Shadow, knowing him as someone with whom she had conversed previously within Tel'aran'rhiod, if nowhere else. She kept silent, considering a variety of responses, or none at all._

" _Maigret?" persisted the voice, seeming to emerge from all around Arachnae._

" _Don't call me that!" Arachnae hissed angrily, in the same evil speech._

" _Sorry!"_

" _How did you discover my true name anyway?" Arachnae demanded suspiciously, "and what_ is _this dull place?"_

 _A soft, chuckling sound echoed within the endless darkness, a hint of madness to the mirth, then the voice responded; "your birth-name? As opposed to that which you later chose at Shayol Ghul? Do you not recall? Why, I spied upon your dreams, Mistress Kirikil!"_

" _Inconceivable!" Arachnae snapped, "my sleeping visions are closely warded, by both potent weaves and powerful devices…"_

" _Oh, there are ways and means to get around those sorts of things." The voice sounded self-congratulatory, and well it might. It should have been impossible to break through the barriers that stood between Arachnae's dreams and the rest of existence, but somehow, this mysterious stranger had accomplished the feat._

" _So where are we?" Arachnae reminded her interlocuter. She did not particularly care, but wished to change the uncomfortable subject._

" _Oh… this is perhaps the most pure aspect of Tel'aran'rhiod… I come here occasionally, for relaxation and contemplation."_

" _What is it called?"_

" _This place does not have a name, as far as I know… for convenience, I refer to it as 'The Nothing.'"_

" _How imaginative." Arachnae considered this information, wondered whether it was worth asking how she had come to be here, and then decided that it really did not matter. Instead, she muttered; "I have been wondering something, since our last meeting…"_

" _Indeed? And what might that be?"_

" _How is it that events are proceeding in tandem for us both, when near one year separates your time from mine?"_

 _The disembodied voice responded in bored tones; "ah, you refer to the temporal disparity betwixt the Portal Stones? Yes, they have never functioned quite as they should, not since poor old Ghenjei Sedai's failed experiment, at least… it is aggravating."_

 _Silence reigned within the infinite void for a few moments before Arachnae impatiently prompted; "_ well? _The time-differential, and by what means we overcome it… how do you explain this phenomenon?"_

 _The voice answered vaguely. "I cannot… not really… it isn't exactly my sphere of expertise. Seneschal might know, there is very little that he does not comprehend, but with him the answers invariably give rise to further questions…"_

" _Seneschal?"_

" _Never mind." The voice that Arachnae anonymously communed with adopted a lecturing tone; "but I do know this; within the World of Dreams, both space and time have little meaning. When did we last speak, Mistress Kirikil?"_

" _Near to one week ago."_

 _The voice attained a note of pedantry. "What manner of week? The proper ones that have seven days, or the new ones that claim ten?"_

"Ten _, of course!"_

" _Really? From my perspective, we most previously met in Tel'aran'rhiod last night. Or was it the night before? I forget. More recently than you determine this event, anyway. The Great Wheel moves strangely within the Dream World, and not always in the correct direction, either. Do you see?"_

" _Not particularly." Arachnae began to feel more substantial, and at the same time, less connected to this empty, featureless place. "I think that I might be waking up. Before this tiresome parlay ends, I would have you to know that my side of our bargain is fulfilled… your adversaries shall likely be neutralised, before they can interfere with your plans." Arachnae paused a moment, then snidely added; "whatever_ those _are!"_

" _Excellent!" declared Arachnae's co-conspirator, "and I, for my part, shall deliver the Aes Sedai to you, as soon as I no longer have need of them."_

" _What possible assistance can those ignorant girls provide to your schemes?" Arachnae wondered._

 _A disturbing giggling sound erupted from the darkness. "I shan't tell you! Allow me at least_ some _of my secrets, Mistress Kirikil…"_

 _Arachnae could feel herself returning to full consciousness in earnest now, so hastily she demanded; "who_ are _you, anyway? I know you not. This is our third encounter but you still have not troubled to tell me your name!"_

" _No, I haven't, have I? Most remiss of me… impolite, also…"_

 _Arachnae became more impatient. "_ Well? _Who is it that I make pact with? A Friend of the Dark, hailing from antiquity, clearly… but whom? Answer me!"_

 _Maniacal laughter resounded at this, and as Arachnae slipped back into the waking world, she heard the voice loudly declare; "why, my dear Arachnae, I am now and have always been… the Laughing God!"_

Arachnae Kirikil's eyes slowly opened… she winced at the light which painfully seared her blurred sight and groaned, raising a shaking hand to her temple. Her head was pounding fiercely. It had been an extremely long time since she had over-channeled, but she yet recalled the unpleasant sensations from her distant youth, when she had oft been eager to push the bounds of her Power further.

An indistinct, pale shape moved into Arachnae's field of vision and she blinked repeatedly to clear her distorted view. The presence resolved itself into the Zomara, gazing down at her with its blank, empty eyes, an expression of artificial concern arranged artlessly upon its androgyne features.

" _Laughing… God_ …" Arachnae whispered, in the Shadow tongue. She had absolutely no idea what that second word portended.

"Mistress?" the Zomara enquired.

"Nothing…" Arachnae glanced to either side, causing her skull to ache even more, but she ignored the pain with a single-minded devotion to exploring her surroundings, gradually becoming aware that she was back in her tent, reclined upon the uncomfortable camp-bed, heaped pillows propping her up. How had she got here?

"I carried you hither after you fainted, Mistress," the Zomara promptly answered her unspoken question. Arachnae felt too weak and drained to chastise the irritating creature for scanning her thoughts yet again, and struggled to rise, despite the discomfort. "You should lie still," the Zomara cautioned, but Arachnae flapped an impatient hand at her Shadow-spawned servant, which duly proceeded to assist her in sitting upright.

Groaning again, Arachnae swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Fetch my-" she began to command, then glared at the Zomara, which was insouciantly proffering a twisted walking-stick. "I _do_ wish that you would let me finish-"

"Your sentences, Mistress?" Arachnae snarled angrily and snatched the warped stick from the Zomara's grasp. The creature blinked its dead eyes slowly, then ventured a repentant expression. "Forgiveness, Mistress!" It shrugged its narrow shoulders. "But anticipating my superior's wishes is what I do, it is what I was made for." The Zomara smiled slyly. "Amongst other things…"

"The Chosen Aginor must have been in a particularly strange mood on the day he constructed _your_ disturbing kind," Arachnae muttered scathingly, before struggling to get to her feet, leaning heavily on the walking-stick. "Assist me!" she commanded reluctantly, not liking the touch of the Zomara's cold hands on her arm and elbow as it helped her to rise from the bed. Before long, Arachnae stood unsteadily, swaying slightly, her head spinning. When the dizziness faded, she made her way slowly outside, utilising the twin aids of Zomara and stick. Blinking in the dawning light without the tent, Arachnae noted that the sun was rising slowly in the east, casting a dim and wavering light over the humid forests of the Great Blight. She must have been unconscious for much of the evening, all of the night.

Arachnae considered the disembodied interview with her strange ally who reigned in the distant Land of Madmen, the peculiar personage who had promised to deliver the hated Aes Sedai into her clutches when their use to him was over. This 'Laughing God' as he obscurely styled himself…

"You should have a care, Mistress," the Zomara softly warned, "your confederate to the far south is a dangerous man; a potent, insane _Souvraniene_ and a traitor to boot!" The Shadowspawn servant's tones became primly disapproving; "why, he foreswore his Oaths to the Great Lord of the Dark long ago, treacherously turning his back upon the Shadow!" The Zomara sounded as though it could not conceive of any act worse than this betrayal. Most probably, it could not.

Arachnae stared at the Zomara coldly, jerking her arm free of its supportive grasp, almost falling over in the process. "Cease looking inside my mind!" she snarled, before demanding; "how know you this, Zomara? Your kind isn't meant to be cognisant of _anything_ other than menial service… and I believe that you're not supposed to _remember_ things for long, either!"

"My Lord Ishamael told me of the Laughing God," the Zomara promptly responded, adding with a cunning leer; "he commanded that I inform you of his low repute when the time was right, Mistress."

"When the time was _right?_ What is that supposed to-?"

The Zomara interrupted, continuing airily; "as to my enhanced memory, I am a little different than most of my brethren… the Betrayer of Hope had me altered, to better recall his commands, as well as your own, Mistress."

Arachnae raised her wispy eyebrows in surprise, assimilating this untoward information, before looking around herself… and noting that the camp and its environs were completely deserted. "Where is everyone?" she wondered.

The Zomara blinked slowly. "The humans, you sent through the Portal Stone," it explained laboriously, "they are gone."

"I _know_ that, imbecile! I refer to the Shadowspawn… they should be guarding the camp... where in the Pit are they?"

When it eventually answered, the Zomara's tone was careful, and Arachnae's heart sunk at its words. She well-knew when someone had bad news to impart, a state of affairs that had arisen all too frequently for her, of late. "As you are aware, Mistress, your Draghkar flew north to the Shadow Library… as for the Myrddraal and Trollocs…" the Zomara hesitated, then revealed; "they too departed, whilst you slumbered. A raven came, carrying a message recalling your remaining command to _Shayol Ghul_ … a missive from one of the Chosen, though I know not which of them gave the order, nor why it was given…"

Arachnae frowned darkly. _She_ knew why. Another admonishment from above, for her failure to kill or capture the Dragonspawn thus far… yet another slap on the wrist from some accursed, addled Chosen, lounging in their ivory tower, unable or unwilling to appreciate the problems she faced down on the ground. It really was _too_ provoking!

Arachnae glanced about herself at the empty tents flapping fitfully in the breeze, the cold ashes of deserted camp-fires, the grim emptiness of her bleak surroundings… and suddenly, for the first time in an extremely _long_ time, she felt entirely alone. Abandoned. It was not a pleasant feeling.

Gleaning Arachnae's desolate thoughts unbidden, as was its wont, the Zomara patted her on the arm in commiseration… then hastily withdrew the pale hand as its Mistress turned her head to stare silently upon the Shadow-spawned servant, cold murder in her deathly gaze. The Zomara ventured a reassuring smile that had quite the opposite effect. "Be not so dejected, Mistress," it enthused, "after all, you still have _me!_ " The Zomara then slipped lithely back into the tent, presumably to make some tea…

Arachnae watched the Zomara depart speechlessly, before turning her ancient, weary eyes toward the emptiness of the Dead Sea, where nothing swam nor lived… a place where hope might come, to die. She considered the Zomara's words, and drew in a deep, shuddering breath, trying to control her emotions, for all that it was extremely difficult to do so under the depressing circumstances. It had been several hundred years since Arachnae Kirikil, Adept of the Shadow, had evinced the barest sign of human frailty… but here, now, in this place and time; she abruptly felt the strong urge to weep.

* * *

 _Much time has passed since the event, but I yet recall the inauspicious occasion of our long voyage down to the City of Midnight. We travelled, not via the potent method of spinning the Travelling webs, which in those terrible times of untrammelled war had become too perilous a mode of transportation to contemplate, but rather aboard the Tamyrlin's official aircraft. There were few enough sho-wings left then, and none at all now; a great amount fell from the skies during the horrific years of the Collapse into anarchy and evil, whilst many more were lost in the early months of conflict betwixt the forces of Light and Dark. But even in those latter days, we yet had access to a remnant of these impressive machines; the lost technology of a more advanced era._

 _The interior of Sho-One was luxurious indeed, but given the serious and onerous nature of our duties, the dire reports that compelled us to go to the Dragon College and judge one of our own for his transgressions, my fellow Senior Sitters of the Hall of Servants and I took little interest in admiring our select surroundings. In close formation with our sho-wing there flew an escort of additional craft; a squadron of long-range hoverflies armed with heavy shock-cannon, a trio of high-speed dirigible assault-ships and a dozen armoured hover-sho troop-transports, in which a reinforced contingent of the elite Dragon Legion had embarked. In those dread days, the enemy primarily held sway over the northern regions and upon the western continent, but our embassy to the far south still required such precautions and more… eight of the most powerful Companions journeyed with us also._

 _Lews Therin Telamon appeared to be in good spirits for the duration of the lengthy flight, conversing and jesting with his Right Hand, Culan Cuhan, as well as Haindar Javagd and Goaeur Rantoel; all old and valued comrades of his. The Tamyrlin's elegant wife, Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar, sat quietly apart from them, playing numerous matches of tcheran with the most recently recruited Companion, one Auldre Choal. This pleasant young man appeared so nervous and tongue-tied in the intoxicating presence of the Lady Sunhair, that despite holding a reputation as a prodigy of the game, lost every single contest!_

 _And myself? I sat at the rear of the cabin with the eminently capable Spy-Mistress, Solinda Sedai and the redoubtable Vora Samm Raijan, Aes Sedai General of the War Ajah. With our voices pitched low, we discussed the limited options available to us. That the Defector had broken the strictures governing the genesis of Constructed life-forms was incontrovertible… though in fact, 'broken' did not come close to describing that which he had perpetrated. Chaime Sedai was clearly guilty of quite comprehensively shattering these laws… and of course, being who he was, did not remotely care that he had been discovered in so doing. I speculated that the Creator of the Lightborn – as he arrogantly and somewhat blasphemously styled himself – would doubtless argue that he had defied the Hall and ignored the gene-splicing edicts for the sake of the war-effort, to assist in enabling the Light to ultimately triumph over the Shadow. Unfortunately, Chaime Kufer yet enjoyed the patronage of many influential supporters in Paaran Disen, who concurred with this stark view of the situation… and I remained well aware that numbered amongst them was the pre-eminent Aes Sedai, Summoner of the Nine Rods of Dominion, whom the entire World had come to know as 'Dragon.'_

 _Before we could arrive at any conclusion or an agreement upon a course of action concerning the crimes of the Defector and the fate of his most recent and morally-questionable Construct – ah, Chaime, how long has it been that we last saw eye-to-eye? how many centuries have passed since we remotely understood one another? – there was an interruption to our grim discussion. The ever-excitable Wassili Beidomon, nephew to the intemperate eccentric who perished in the Sharom disaster along with part of the populace of V'saine, shouted stridently to us all, calling his fellow passengers over to the starboard view-ports. Vora obstinately remained in her seat, but Solinda and I rose, then went over to look, alongside the Dragon and his trusted Companions. Beneath us, as our sho-wing swept in a majestic, descending curve toward the waiting Aerodrome, lay a great port city; immense glowing towers and domes rising up into the darkness, shining piers projecting out over an icebound bay beyond. This despite the fact that it was yet day, as the sun only rises in these far southern latitudes for six months in the year, giving the metropolis its alternate name._

 _Oselle Sedai already stood at the port, staring down upon the cityscape stretching out below. "I am surprised to see that it is even still there," she sourly observed. "M'Jinn is not," Solinda commented sadly, "and neither are Mar Ruois nor fabled N'Zoar…" The untimely deaths of people comprise a tragedy, but the violent demise of entire cities and the citizenry who gave them life… there exists no word to adequately describe the enormity of such loss. Or perhaps there is one… War. It was then that the familiar, compelling voice of the Dragon broke in upon my thoughts of private regret, his mellifluous tones commanding the attention of all present, as ever. Naturally, there was the deference due to the Tamyrlin and of course, he was Ta'veren… but it was more than that, went deeper than this, beyond mere rank or ability. Whatever his faults – and they were many – Lews Therin Telamon always saw to the heart of the matter._

" _I would that the Collam Aman had in like fashion ceased to exist, been obliterated. Or indeed, that both the College and its creations had never been contemplated or conceived of, in fact." The Lord of the Morning smiled his customary melancholic smile. "I think me that this absence would have spared us all a series of difficult decisions… and the danger of acting in a manner little different than that of the Shadow." At these enigmatic words, Solinda and Oselle exchanged an unreadable glance, whilst the Lady Ilyena stepped gracefully over and lightly touched her husband's arm. He smiled down at her, his dark mood visibly lightening. I then turned back to gaze down upon the Midnight City. I shall never forget that sight. It was the first time – and also, the last – that I beheld Larcheen._

 _Latra Posae Decume, Tamyrlin_

 _[extract taken from personal memoirs]_

 _collated and edited by Kiam Lopiang, Aes Sedai_

 _unauthorised edition published posthumously as;_

' _The Manifold Recollections of Shadar Nor'_

 _ **Chapter Ten *** _ **The Dead City**__

 **Act One :** _ **Larcheen**_

The Lady Ellythia of House Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, stood at the end of a long gallery, gazing out over the ruins toward the lapping waters of the great bay beyond. The faded tiles beneath her riding boots were cracked and dusty, the balcony upon which she rested her pale hands betrayed traces of damage in several places, many of the abbreviated pillars supporting the stone balustrade snapped in twain. It was much the same everywhere in this derelict metropolis of the Age of Legends, which bore the accumulated, cataclysmic signs of more than three millennia of uncounted wars, storms and earthquakes. But still, the vestiges of dead Larcheen yet retained a measure of the resplendent grandeur of elder days, the looming architecture engendering an atmosphere of impressive antiquity that not even the venerable island-city of Tar Valon could equal.

Larcheen had been already ancient centuries before the foundation stones of the White Tower were even laid, Ellyth was reliably informed. Though Tar Valon was a place of Light, ostensibly at least… Larcheen quite the opposite. Not a city of the Shadow, necessarily, but certainly a nexus of the dark. It had not been known as 'The Midnight City' for nothing. This went beyond the fact that much of the crumbling masonry was formed from slabs of the local volcanic rock, polished black stones infused with angry veins of red. No, there was a darkness at the centre of this ruined city of the previous Age, Ellyth was convinced of it… a darkness that she had yet to encounter.

"A little like Aridhol," Ellyth murmured, then blinked, surprised to have involuntarily broken the brooding silence. She glanced down the long gallery; open to the still air on one side, lined with ornate, evenly-spaced doorways on the other, but saw no sign of anyone who might have overheard her words. She was seemingly quite alone. "I really must not make a habit of speaking to myself," Ellyth muttered softly. Speaking to herself _again_ … she sighed, resuming her examination of Larcheen.

Built upon a gradated slope; a cavalcade of dilapidated palaces, riven domes and crooked towers, descending to the remnants of the docks where splintered quays extended out into the bay, like so many grasping, broken fingers. Numerous galleys and smaller craft were moored to these splintered stone piers, including the large vessel with the double-bank of oars that had brought Ellyth and her companions here. And though she could not see it from her vantage, she recalled that further inland, an enormous volcano loomed over the city, away to the east…

Ellyth focused her attention on the bay, and that which lay beyond… in the distance, indistinct through the fog, she could make out the soaring span of the vast, impossible bridge that stretched from one bank of the great river to the other. It yet beggared belief that any structure so enormous could have been constructed by the hands of humanity, and not through the workings of the natural world, nor the will of the Creator. Doubtless, Naythan Gaidin would have been able to name at least a dozen edifices of the Age of Legends that might have eclipsed this immense bridge in size, for all that much of the architectural achievements of his times had reportedly been destroyed in the War against the Shadow… but her beloved, infuriating Warder was regrettably not present to do so.

Ellyth's feathery brows drew down as she frowned at the empty waves beyond the shattered city. Where _was_ Naythan? And the other Gaidin, as well as her wayward brother, Thaeus? Those aggravating Shaido Aiel also… though given the dire straits in which she and her friends currently languished, Ellyth would have been only too glad to greet the arrival of the Aielmen, even that awful braggart _Cohradin!_ Though of course, she would far rather await Naythan Shieldman hastening to her rescue, not unlike Mikel of the Pure Heart redeeming Princess Astorai from the cruel captivity of the Dusk Queen… as a girl, _that_ had always been Ellyth's favourite tale from the Great Hunt Cycle, and she supposed that even in adulthood, it still was.

Ellyth then glanced glumly down at the bronze bracelet that encircled the slim wrist above her left hand. It was an ugly, chunky article, unrelieved and scarcely decorative but then, it was not intended to be. She, Shrina and Renn, as well as Dara the Sharan Ayyad… they all now wore one. These heavy bracelets had but one purpose; they prevented the female channelers from accessing _saidar_ , acted as an effective barrier between the four young women and the True Source. A shield that they had tried to break through on numerous occasions, but to no avail. Their captors had required them to wear what could only be _ter'angreal_ from the moment that they had docked in Larcheen, three days previous.

Since then, neither Renn nor Shrina had been able to sense the location or situation of their Warders through the Bond; Jabal and the Twins had disappeared from their awareness at the very moment that these bracelets had been placed about their wrists. Equally, Ellyth had not been visited in her dreams by Naythan since the ill-omened advent of her arrival in this dead city, the imposition of the shielding device upon her… the bracelet must also prevent his particular talent for finding his Aes Sedai in her sleeping state. Curse these Madmen, particularly the inventive fellow who somehow had the ability to _make_ actual _ter'angreal!_ For these bronze artefacts felt _new_ and were almost certainly his work, whoever he was… the irritating (if comely) youth Piper had mentioned him, had he not? His name was 'Drummer' apparently, a friend of the young Sea Folk channeler, it would seem…

Despite knowing that it was a wasted effort, Ellyth moved her right hand near to the bracelet encircling her left wrist, held closed by a simple catch, bereft of any lock… but as always occurred when she tried this, her grasp froze of its own accord, a few inches away from the _ter'angreal_. Try as she might, Ellyth could not force her fingers any closer to the catch. Just _thinking_ about removing the bracelet somehow rendered this simple action impossible. She was entirely unable to free herself of her own volition. Ellyth had no idea how this was accomplished, it just _was_. She and her friends had similarly discovered that it was an equally useless activity attempting to divest each other of the bracelets, though they had tried to do so often enough. Shrina, particularly. That fool girl gave a deeper meaning to the word; 'stubborn!' When the young Green was not planning various perilous escape attempts, she persisted in arguing with the Sharan maiden, Dara, on an almost constant basis. As for Renn… well, currently she was otherwise engaged.

It was to get away from her feuding companions that Ellyth had left the rooms that they all shared, going out onto the balcony for respite, to seek momentary peace and quiet. Though when alone, she had a propensity to brood, to dwell upon their grim situation. The depressing surroundings did little to improve her mood, the opportunity to think uninterrupted promoting the same, ever-present speculation; why were they even _here?_ As hostages, or something more? What in the Wheel did this dangerously unstable and murderous Laughing God _want_ with them?

In the near distance; the echoes of approaching footsteps. Ellyth turned, directing her cool gaze down the long, deserted gallery. This wing of the ancient, semi-ruined palace which they had unwillingly called home for the last few days was isolated from the rest of Larcheen's populace. Their quarters comprised one of the sole habitable areas within the tumbledown, rubble-bestrewn manse, and they were mostly left to their own devices here, but for the occasional silent servant who would visit briefly to bring them provisions and other necessities. A thwarted, night-time attempt to surreptitiously depart Larcheen had illustrated that their captors possessed ways and means of surveiling them from afar, negating the need for more immediate guards upon their persons. Not to mention that they risked becoming hopelessly lost within the maze of ruins that lay between them and the city perimeter.

Ellyth's brow furrowed… these steadily encroaching footfalls did not sound like those of a _Souvraniene_ , one of the red-masked villains who channeled _saidin_ in service to their Laughing God, nor one of the common armsmen who served them in turn, either. Such personages most generally wore sturdy boots when not aboard one of their galleys, and these stepping sounds seemed too light for such heavy footwear. Had it been one of the servants walking towards her, Ellyth would likely have heard nothing at all, since these lowly individuals tended to go barefoot.

The identity of the mystery visitor was abruptly revealed when a tall and elegant figure appeared around the corner at the far end of the gallery, paused a moment, striking something of a pose, then started down the long promenade toward Ellyth, moving with poise and grace. The young Noblewoman blinked in surprise. A most attractive maiden, if somewhat flat-chested, crowned with long tresses of luxuriant red hair. Dark eyes flashed in a fine-boned face, the aesthetically-pleasing features delineated by rouge, mascara and pastel-shaded powders. In addition to a choker of ebon lace set about her swan-neck, the statuesque female wore a long, crimson gown that left her smooth shoulders quite bare, as well as her slim arms, but for black, elbow-length gloves. As the youthful woman advanced down the gallery with a confident strut, Ellyth noted that not only was her tightly-cut dress fashioned of extremely thin silk, clinging to her slender figure every bit as scandalously as a Domani gown might, but also that the skirts were slit up one side so that a long, shapely leg sheathed in a sheer stocking was revealed with every other step. Finely-tooled dark leather shoes with raised heels completed the glamorous maiden's wardrobe, the footwear tightly-buckled about trim ankles.

Ellyth watched and waited as the redhead steadily approached her, noticing when she drew closer that she wore emerald ear-studs and a matching necklace, numerous jewelled rings adorning her fingers. "Hello there!" the stranger called out in shrill yet melodic tones, coming to a halt before Ellyth and surveying her with friendly curiosity, "might you be one of our Aes Sedai guests?"

Ellyth could well have pointed-out that _guests_ more usually accepted an invitation to stay with their hosts, rather than being kidnapped, and that they were generally able to depart when they wished… but she did not trouble to. "Yes," she replied, curtly, her dark, perceptive gaze examining the features of her interlocutor shrewdly, neck craned back a little as the newcomer stood half a head taller than she.

"I am Laurelai," the red-haired woman revealed, "may I know your name?"

Ellyth scowled, in no mood for games. "You are well aware of who I am!" she snapped.

The damsel who had introduced herself with a frankly ridiculous name, arched her dark, plucked eyebrows. "Oh? Have we met before?"

" _Of course we have!_ " Ellyth hissed, adding; "I know perfectly well that it is _you_ , Piper, so you may as well cease this absurd pretence forthwith!"

At this, the rouged lips of 'Laurelai' fell open speechlessly and she gaped like a fish for a moment. Then, she collected herself, dark eyes narrowing. "Curses! How did you know it was me?" Piper demanded in a slightly deeper voice, placing gloved hands on narrow hips and glaring at Ellyth, incensed. "I took such _care_ over my appearance!"

"Evidently," Ellyth drawled scathingly, "but even so, it was still tolerably obvious who you were." She smirked. " _Laurelai!_ "

Piper scowled darkly. "Tis a _nice_ name," he muttered, sulkily.

"It makes you sound like a swooning flipskirt from some witless romance!" Ellyth declared, before running a critical eye over Piper's garish costume, "though since that _is_ what you currently resemble, I suppose that it is only appropriate, yes?"

Ellyth declined to mention that despite the bracelet-device blocking her from the True Source, her Talent for sensing _ter'angreal_ remained unaffected and had informed her that beneath the lacy choker, Piper was still wearing the bronze torc that protected him from the Taint. This had rather given the game away, concerning his true identity. That and the long gloves, clearly worn to hide his Sea Folk tattoos. But it would seem that their captors were unaware of Ellyth's particular skill to sense _ter'angreal_ , and she intended to ensure that this advantageous situation continued. They presumably did not know of Renn's singular Talent either… at least, Ellyth _hoped_ so. The four captives fully intended to escape Larcheen ere long, and the young Brown Sister's ability to commune with and subsume animals to her will might well be the key to their success in this endeavour.

Piper was looking somewhat downcast, dejected even, at having his exotic guise so easily penetrated... Ellyth, who rather liked the flamboyant youth in spite of his being numbered amongst their enemy, resolved to mollify him. "You _do_ look elegant, though," she complimented, adding; "most attractive, yes?"

Piper brightened at once. "Do you really think so?"

"Of course. That gown certainly suits you."

Piper beamed, even white teeth flashing in his painted face. "It does, doesn't it? This dress is actually one of my favourites…"

Ellyth touched a serpent-ringed finger to a red lock of hair twined about Piper's neck. "A wig, I take it?"

Piper nodded. "Mmm. I have a blonde one that is even finer, but…" he shrugged, "well, I just wasn't in the mood. I felt like being a redhead today!"

Ellyth nodded, venturing a patient smile. _Men really are the strangest creatures!_ she thought to herself, however.

Piper's manner became brisk. "Well, in any case, let us away," he prompted, "I am but the errand-boy, after all, and on this occasion my assigned task consists of escorting you to meet an important personage."

"Whom?" Ellyth enquired.

Piper smiled slyly. "You'll see." Without elucidating further, the young _Atha'an Miere_ channeler turned smartly on his heel and began to sashay back down the gallery, leaving Ellyth few options for satisfying her curiosity but to follow, hurrying a little to catch up with Piper's lengthy strides. She fell-in beside the exotically-garbed youth, envying him his graceful, swaying gait. Why, he had better _legs_ than most females of her acquaintance! It simply was not _fair_ that such a surfeit of beauty had been apportioned to a mere male! Really, what had the Divine Creator been _thinking_ of?!

"What of my companions?" Ellyth demanded, "Shrina, Renn and Dara? Were you not sent to fetch them also?"

Piper shook his head, a cascade of reddish hair sweeping back and forth across bare shoulders. "No, Aes Sedai… just you. For now."

Ellyth's feathery brows drew down in irate fashion but she declined to give Piper the satisfaction of requiring further details of him… instead, she queried; "the wigs… the gowns… where-?"

"Did I acquire them?" Piper interrupted, before explaining airily; "oh, the Mother Ocean provides… just about anything and everything washes up here at _Aisle Souvraniene_ , sooner or later." He grinned at Ellyth and winked sardonically.

Ellyth frowned and followed-on, wondering distantly how the others were managing in her absence…

* * *

"Watcher's Oath! If I don't get out of this beastly place _soon_ , I shall go mad as the bloody Dragon!"

At this unwelcome and loud declaration, Dara of the Silvermoon Tribe of the Co'dansin Ayyad, seated cross-legged on a threadbare cushion, glanced up from the Stones board that held her attention… The tall and flame-haired barbarian channeler named 'Shrinalla' had resumed her annoying pacing up and down, a relentless back and forth traversal of the length of the large, dusty room that they all shared.

"If _you_ remain here for much longer, then _we_ shall all be driven as mad as your doomed Lord of the Morn!" Dara drawled, pointedly.

Shrina ceased her pacing to stand, hands planted on curvaceous hips, glaring down at the Ayyad channeler. She opened her full-lipped mouth to verbally retaliate, then paused, eyeing the board set before Dara. "What are you _doing_ , Sharan?"

"Playing a game of Stones."

"Who with?"

"Myself." Dara arched a dark eyebrow, the swirling tattoos on her brow writhing, and regarded Shrina pityingly. " _Obviously!_ "

Shrina the redheaded barbarian scowled. "That is silly!" She considered. "Though I suppose you can't exactly _lose_ then, can you?" she further observed, with weighty sarcasm.

Dara shrugged. "I am scarcely likely to be defeated at Stones if I match _you_ either, barbarian!"

"Don't call me a bar-"

"Why, you play even more poorly than does Ellythia! When it comes to tactics and forethought, you primitive Aes Sedai are but mere _children!_ "

Shrina redoubled her dark scowl, taking a threatening step toward Dara, who ignored her, nodding to the yellow-haired barbarian channeler; "Rennetta plays tolerably well, when she applies herself, but…" she trailed-off.

Renn was of course currently unable to concentrate upon a game of Stones, or anything else, given her preoccupation with other matters. The voluptuous young Aes Sedai was lying on her back upon a sleeping-mat, over by the large, mullioned window, hands folded over her midriff, eyes tightly closed. Her full breasts rose and fell slowly as she breathed deeply and she appeared to be fast asleep, but apparently was not. Some sort of trance, by all accounts, though Dara did not quite understand what was taking place with the blonde Aes Sedai. Renn had been comatose since dawn of the previous day, when her peculiar emissary had been sent north to find the other barbarians… Odd indeed, that these uncivilised folk possessed talents and techniques unheard-of by even the sagacious Ayyad!

Shrina also glanced at Renn, then turned a disparaging gaze back to Dara, and sniffed disapprovingly. Dara responded to this with a goading smile that contained more than a hint of sneer, then raised a dark-skinned finger and traced the shape of an eye in the air, adding a squiggly line beneath.

Shrina's green eyes narrowed dangerously. "Stop doing that, Sharan sneak! You don't have the right!"

Dara bared her teeth and rose gracefully from the cushion. "I _do_ , barbarian!"

"Don't call me a-"

"Am I not a ridiculous Watcher over the Waves also? Did I too not say the incomprehensible words of your absurd Oath?"

Shrina became even more incensed. "It is _not_ absurd… well, not _that_ absurd… and you are only a Watcher by _courtesy_ ¸ you slinking cat!"

Dara drew herself up to her full height, which was admittedly less impressive than she should have liked. "Since I am apparently a slinking cat, whatever _that_ is, then _you_ are a moronic barbar oaf!"

"Ink-face!"

"Big-nose!"

The name-calling might have escalated to outright physical violence, but at this point the two antithetical young women were interrupted by a loud, squawking sound. They jumped with surprise, turning to stare toward the window, from which the unexpected avian noise had come. A large, stern-looking eagle was now perched upon the sill, framed by ancient, carven stone, the desolate ruins of Larcheen stretching away behind its brownish, feathery form.

"He's back!" Shrina cried, entirely unnecessarily.

The great bird-of-prey cocked its head to one side, examining the two feuding women with a cold, yellow eye, cruel beak pursed disapprovingly, then turned its fierce gaze upon Renn, lying beneath the window. The young Brown promptly opened her eyes and sat up on the sleeping-mat, raising her hands and rubbing tentatively at her temples, frowning. "Ouch!" Renn exclaimed, "my flaming head hurts…" She peered blearily at Dara and Shrina, hovering over her. "I thought I heard shouting… have you two been arguing again?"

"No!" Dara promptly answered. Shrina elected to remain silent, doubtless because falsehoods were forbidden her. The eagle squawked again, flapping his wings a bit before settling down to preen long flight-feathers, presumably disarrayed from a protracted interval of soaring across the uncivilised wilderness.

Renn glanced at the large bird, then back at her companions. "Aldazar says you _have_ been disagreeing," she accused.

" _Aldazar?_ " Shrina repeated, confusedly.

"Well, I had to call the bloody bird _something_ ," Renn explained distractedly, a far-away look in her light-brown eyes.

Shrina blinked. "Old Tongue, is it not? What does it mean?"

"Eagle."

"Oh."

Dara noted that Renn's voice sounded hoarse, so she went over to the jug set upon a rickety table in the corner, pouring a stream of tepid water into a stone beaker. She then carried this over to the sleeping-mat and knelt gracefully, offering the beverage to Renn. "Here, drink this, bird-talking barbarian," she suggested, and the young Aes Sedai gratefully took the beaker and sipped thirstily. Dara blinked. "I mean; _Rennetta_ ," she corrected herself, pleased at her diplomacy.

"I think I actually prefer 'barbarian' to _that_ name," Renn murmured, before sipping again.

Shrina scowled at Dara some more. "Stop calling us barbarians, you!" she snarled.

Dara shrugged. "But you _are_ barbarians," she objected mildly, "all those not of blessed Co'dansin are mere lowly b-"

"Shara!" Shrina interrupted, "where the silk comes from! _And_ the slinking cats! It is called 'Shara' and _not_ Co'dansin!"

" _Barbarians_ name it thus, true, but the correct name is-"

"Pah!"

"Would you two _please_ stop sniping at each other?" Renn interjected, "or at least, do it more quietly? My pounding skull does not appreciate this tumult…"

"Sorry," Shrina whispered, giving Dara a spiteful look.

"Does your head always ache so, after you… after you do whatever it is that you do, with birds and beasts?" Dara enquired quietly.

Renn nodded, then winced. "It is the price I pay for sending my mind's eye into the consciousness of another creature," she admitted.

"Intriguing!" Dara commented, "I have never heard of such an ability amongst my own people…"

"You shock me!" Shrina observed drolly, "something that the wondrous Ayyad cannot do, yet we benighted barbarians _can?_ "

Dara ignored Shrina, solicitously helping Renn to her feet, offering the weary young Aes Sedai an arm to lean upon. The eagle watched them closely from the window sill, then squawked again, pointedly.

Renn glanced enquiringly at the large bird, which stared back at her demandingly. "Oh, yes… of course," she mumbled, then turned to her Green Ajah friend; "Shrina, would you please give Aldazar some food..? He's flown a long way, and must be famished."

Dara watched as Shrina stalked over to a dilapidated sideboard set against the wall, grumbling under her breath as she did so, before returning with a tin platter upon which lay a haunch of mutton, somewhat high. Gingerly, the tall Aes Sedai set the meat upon the window sill, taking care to not get too close to the eagle, eyeing its vicious beak and sharp talons cautiously.

Renn noticed Shrina's nervousness. "Don't be a goose, Shrina!" she chided, "Aldazar won't hurt you! Well, probably not, anyway…"

Shrina retreated from the eagle's vicinity with evident relief, watching as the large bird-of-prey, after eyeing her suspiciously, sidled closer to the tempting mutton. "I thought that 'eagle' in the Old Tongue was 'caldazar' or something like that," she muttered distractedly, not taking her wary gaze off the dangerous bird as it began to tear greedily into the flesh set upon the platter.

"Not quite, barbar… that actually translates as 'red eagle,' you will find," Dara explained, watching the predatory avian also. She had always admired such noble creatures, these Lords of the Skies, it was a privilege to be so close to one. If only her beloved Hamadi were here with her, to see it also… she sighed softly.

Renn was staring at the Ayyad woman in surprise. "You speak the Old Tongue, Dara?" she wondered.

Dara nodded. "All scholars of Co'dansin do. I learnt the ancient World Speech long before I gained familiarity with the uncivilised Vulgar grunting sounds that you barbarians use amongst yourselves in these debased, modern days."

"Never mind that guff!" Shrina rudely interjected, "whither your scouting mission, Renn? What did you glimpse through the eyes of yon eagle? Have you seen my boys?"

" _And_ Hamadi, what of him?" Dara added eagerly, "did you behold a dark-skinned youth with a handsome face, tattooed much as mine is?"

Renn nodded firmly. "Yes and yes! I saw the Twins and also a strapping Sharan lad who answers that description… but for the red eye…"

"The red _what?_ "

"And my darling Jabal too," Renn exclaimed obtusely, "I thank the Creator that he is safe!" Dara put aside her confusion over the eye business, feeling a surge of relief within her breast that Hamadi yet lived… Shrina was clearly experiencing similar emotions at the news of her own Warders, since it was the first time that she had smiled in days. Renn continued; "oddly, I then noticed that conceited Gleeman friend of yours, Shrina; Roth Blucha, of all people, clutching his silver flute and seemingly inebriated!"

Shrina gaped. " _Roth?_ What is _he_ doing in the Land of Madmen?"

Renn shrugged. "Being a flautist and getting drunk, by the looks of it! There was a handsome woman on his arm, an Ebou Dari by the looks of her… she had one of those little jewelled knives hung about her neck…"

"That sounds like Ysmet!"

"Oh, and dearest Rashiel Tamor was there too…"

" _Rashiel?!_ "

"Along with that Warder of hers, the Murandian Lord, I forget his name… the well-set-up, unusually polite chap with the horrid moustache…"

" _Warder?_ " Shrina gasped, "but Trollop is a _Red!_ "

"Well, she Bonded the fellow anyway! You know what Rashiel is like, with the menfolk! Did I not tell you about him?"

"No, of course you didn't! You never tell me anything important! What are _they_ all doing here? How did-?"

"Stop chattering, Shrina!" Renn snapped irritably, "stick a stocking in it!"

"Who else did you see, Rennetta?" Dara enquired.

"Hmph? Well, the Aielmen, naturally, they were all there, though not that fierce spear-maiden, I didn't see _her_ … various sailors, also intoxicated… a strange old man dressed in animal-skins, jigging about by the bonfire… actually, there seemed to be some sort of celebration going on…" Renn blinked. "Ah, and Master Shieldman, of course… I _must_ tell Ellyth, she will be glad to know that…" Renn trailed-off, glancing around the room. "Um… so where _is_ she, anyway?"

* * *

"That frock of yours is really rather choice," Piper observed with a touch of jealousy as they descended a wide span of curving steps, fashioned from cracked and crumbling marble, "though it has certainly seen better days."

Ellyth eyed Piper suspiciously, but saw no ridicule in his dark, _Atha'an Miere_ eyes, just frank interest. She nodded glumly. "It was my best remaining gown," she admitted, self-consciously smoothing her torn and tattered skirts, trying to ignore how grubby the azure silk had become, "but now is fit only for rags."

Piper made a clucking sound with his sharp tongue. "I would that I had access to such skilled dressmakers… this horrid Land is no fit place for fine fashions," he commented mournfully, "though tis always a relief to return to Larcheen where I may clothe myself in something even slightly decent…"

Ellyth eyed Piper curiously. Cross-dressing was not unknown in the Westlands. There was that odd girl Min, who saw prophetic visions… _she_ habitually garbed herself as a boy, the young Noblewoman recalled. Though there were some who took such behaviour even further…

Lord Guye had occasionally told the children anecdotes of a notorious great-aunt of his, the formidable Lady Illisia, who had always been considered eccentric. Though it was not in keeping with tradition for Amadici women to bear arms and take part in martial endeavours, Illisia Desiama had always possessed a rather mannish, warlike temperament, as well as a decided preference for her own sex in matters of romantic liaison. Barred from joining the Children of Light due to her gender, the redoubtable Amadici aristocrat had used her considerable fortune to form her own Legion, recruiting disaffected Whitecloaks from the Amador garrisons, soldiery of the Amadici Royal Guard and no few female mercenaries who shared her predilections.

As 'Lady Captain' of her own private Legion, Illisia of House Desiama had seen a deal of service, mostly up in the Borderlands, all the while stubbornly clad in her preferred mode of dress; a pair of pale trews, matching coat and a white cape emblazoned with silver crescent moons, since the golden sunburst had been denied her. The militaristic Noblewoman had ultimately fallen during the fierce fighting which saw the suppression of a violent Shadowsworn uprising in Kandor, dying as she had lived; boldly and without compromise. In the aftermath of the final engagement, her grieving armswomen had discovered Illisia's body amidst a dozen slain Darkfriends, all dead by her sword. There were worse ways to make an end.

But as for the obverse custom of men dressing in women's garb… this was something that Ellyth was altogether _less_ familiar with. Though for all she knew, she might well have encountered such individuals previously and not even realised, had their guise been as complete as that of Piper… the comely Sea Folk youth certainly made for a tolerably convincing female. Why, he had even added a pair of small, false breasts to his ensemble!

The source of Ellyth's speculation was musing as they came to the foot of the marble staircase; "I suppose that I could lend you and your friends some of _my_ dresses… not the really _nice_ gowns, of course, I'm not feeling _that_ generous, but nothing too shabby…" Piper paused, eyeing Ellyth up and down, critically. "I'd say we have a similar build, but you might need to raise the hems a little…"

Ellyth blinked. Needlework had never been her forte… "Do you _always_ clothe yourself in womanly apparel?" she wondered, then quickly added, not wishing to cause offence; "if you do not mind my asking?"

"Oh, I don't mind at all. Not always, no, just when I'm in the mood." Piper shrugged. "Men's clothes tend to be rather _boring_ in my estimation, female garments are so much more decorative, don't you find?"

"You should meet an absurd diminutive Saldaean I know by the name of 'Lord Wakime,'" Ellyth suggested, "he might well open your eyes to a whole new world of tasteless possibilities!"

Piper was not attending, had adopted an expression of mild disgust. "Of course, when we _Souvraniene_ are out and about, abroad in the Land doing the will of the God, we must wear those ugly furs and masks and whatnot…" He set out across a rubble-strewn courtyard, heading toward a large gateway, bereft of gates.

Ellyth reluctantly followed-on. "For what reason _do_ you present yourselves thus?" she enquired, casually, "the smiling masks and so forth..?"

Piper chuckled. "Still fishing for facts, your Ladyship? Well, the fearsome appearance… why, tis simply what is _expected_. The benighted natives of _Aisle Souvraniene_ well-know what a leathern laughing face means, and they do not make the mistake of interfering with us… not more than once, at least." The _Atha'an Miere_ channeler eyed Ellyth sardonically. "Strange as it must seem to you, Aes Sedai, we half-mad male-channelers who serve the Laughing God may represent the closest thing this unhappy territory has to actual law and order!"

"That _is_ strange," Ellyth agreed as they stepped through the archway and out into the dark, cobbled thoroughfare beyond, a wide avenue stretching between ancient ruins. It was not empty. Ellyth raised delicate eyebrows in surprise at the sight of an unusual contraption… she was familiar with the two-man litters that were borne about the streets of Tar Valon, most usually containing those personages who considered themselves too important to simply walk to their destination, as everyone else was accustomed to doing… However, this particular mode of transportation was larger; a wooden compartment bedecked with beaded curtains, supported between two long poles… it currently rested upon the cobbles, awaiting them.

"What is that?" Ellyth wondered.

"A _palanquin_ ," Piper responded, in bored tones.

Ellyth's gaze moved from the vehicle itself to those who bore it; a dozen raggedly-clothed men, bearded and displaying the crude facial tattoos and filed teeth of this Land's debased inhabitants. Their wrists were shackled to the poles of the _palanquin_ with heavy iron fetters. _Slaves_ , in other words, akin to those unfortunates who had rowed their galley to this port, if slightly less wretched-looking. A half-dozen armed men clad in crude furs stood about the porters; the ordinary soldiers of the Laughing God, though not currently wearing their rough, leather masks. These individuals bowed to Piper before straightening, whilst the slaves dropped to their knees and remained where they were, eyes lowered, until the young _Souvraniene_ bade them rise.

Ellyth frowned disapprovingly as she reluctantly followed Piper over to the… what had he called it? _Palanquin?_ A strange name. Piper swept a curtain back, revealing a narrow seat within the compartment, cushioned with cracked leather. "In you get, Aes Sedai!" he prompted, cheerfully.

Ellyth scowled, then shook her head decisively. She indicated the slaves, standing patiently at the long poles to which they were chained. "I should prefer to walk," she primly stated, "rather than have these sorry specimens be forced to carry me to… to wherever it is that comprises our destination."

Piper sniggered. "Be not so overtly virtuous! Tis a long way…" He gathered his crimson skirts and slipped lithely into the _palanquin_ , perching upon the bench, then beckoned insistently. "Hop in, my Lady!" Ellyth hesitated. She did not overly care for walking great distances, in truth, but having taken a moral stance on the matter, had no wish to immediately abandon it. Piper sighed, loudly and theatrically. "Your concern for the chattel is commendable," he remarked, "but in the Land of the Madmen, we don't make a habit of enslaving the _innocent_ … if you knew of even half the crimes and atrocities these brutes have perpetrated, prior to our taking them captive and putting them to work at useful tasks, you would see that your sympathy was sorely misplaced."

Ellyth lingered a moment more, sensing the expectant eyes of both slaves and their guards upon her, feeling foolish… then, she hitched up her own besmirched skirts and scrambled awkwardly into the compartment. She unwillingly seated herself beside Piper, the narrow confines of the _palanquin_ interior forcing them closer together than was entirely comfortable.

Piper grinned at Ellyth, leaning past her to tug the beaded curtain shut, plunging the inside of the compartment into shade. "Alone at last, your Ladyship!" he declared with a roguish wink, "cosy, is it not? Why, if my preference was not otherwise directed, such a pleasant tryst we might enjoy in this privacy, you and I!"

Despite herself, Ellyth could not help but be slightly amused by this suggestive comment, not to mention the mental image of the two of them canoodling within these narrow confines… "Keep your tattooed paws to yourself or I shall most certainly _slap_ you!" she warned the Sea Folk youth.

Piper feigned disappointment. "Would you not at least promise me a place on your dance-card, my Lady?" he importuned.

Ellyth smiled coolly. "Perhaps," she murmured, "though were we to dance in our current state, I am uncertain which of us would _lead_ …"

Piper looked thoughtful. "You may have a point there, Aes Sedai…" He then rapped sharply upon the wooden ceiling of the compartment. "On!" The _palanquin_ rose from the ground as the slave-porters raised the long poles to their shoulders. The interior shook a little; Ellyth placed a steadying hand on the side of the compartment, leaning back on the hard bench as they set off with a swaying motion not unlike the movement of a ship's deck when at sea. Off they went, travelling to whichever mysterious destination Piper had in mind.

"Where are we going?" Ellyth demanded, not expecting to receive an answer.

Piper had produced a small, round mirror and was critically examining his cosmetically-decorated face… at this query, he glanced at Ellyth, arching thin, black eyebrows. "Really, milady, do you not favour surprises? Growing-up – in some sort of _Palace_ I would presume! – were you the sort of girl who peeked at her Nameday gifts the night before?"

Ellyth responded to this insolence by narrowing her eyes dangerously, her upper lip curling in a silent snarl. She really _was_ at the end of her tether, and did not appreciate being goaded and scorned any further!

Piper sighed and slipped the mirror into the sleeve of a long glove, then raised his hands, placatingly. "Alright, there's no need to glare at me like that! Don't kill the messenger! Very well, I'll tell you…" He smiled pleasantly, even white teeth flashing in his darkly attractive face, seeming to momentarily illuminate the gloomy interior of the curtained _palanquin._ Not for the first time, nor even the tenth, Ellyth found herself wondering at the perversity of Fate, that would render a youth this pretty entirely uninterested in the intimate company of women! It was ridiculous!

"If you _must_ know," Piper confided, tapping a finger against the bronze bracelet- _ter'angreal_ secured about Ellyth's wrist, "we are off to see the man who made _this._ " Having given an answer that was really no answer at all, the youthful Sea Folk channeler leant back in the seat, smirking. Ellyth scowled, and resisted the urge to hurl herself at the handsome-yet-infuriating fellow, nails bared… but only just.

* * *

Atop the ruined palace in which the captives were quartered, there yet remained a small sun-terrace, encircled by broken stumps of weathered marble; the remnants of an ornamental balustrade. Shrina stood near to the westernmost limit of this level vantage, the wind whipping her cloak about her, taking care to not approach the edge of the roof too closely. It would be quite a long fall to the cobbles below…

Beside Shrina, Renn loitered, shading her eyes as she gazed out across the great bay. A distant speck held her attention, outlined against the orange sphere of the setting sun; the large eagle. "Farewell, Aldazar," she murmured, softly.

Shrina glanced enquiringly at Renn. "You sound almost regretful," she observed, "and I thought you'd be glad to see the back of that bloody bird!"

Renn shrugged, continuing to watch the diminishing winged shape until it was lost to sight, beyond the evening haze that shimmered about the vast bridge. "Oh, I suppose that I am," she murmured, "after all, it _is_ rather disconcerting the way he keeps following me around everywhere… but at the same time, I sort of miss him."

"Well, the dratted eagle _did_ do us a service, I suppose," Shrina grudgingly allowed, "at least I know my boys are safe, for the time being..." She fell silent, then became aware that Renn was eyeing her censoriously. " _And_ everyone else too!" Shrina hastily added, "Jabal and the others… it is well to have tidings of them…"

"Indeed," Renn agreed, "though I would that I had _not_ informed them of our whereabouts, by scratching the name of this city into the sand. Now they will certainly come here to attempt our rescue, and…" Renn trailed-off, evidently not wishing to speculate further.

"And _what?_ " Shrina demanded, "think you that this mob of Madmen and their attendant ruffians can withstand Warders and Aielmen and… and Master Shieldman, whatever _he_ counts as? Why, I saw Naythan Gaidin slice a Myrddraal in twain, his blade moving faster than my eyes could follow! It was like something out of the Legend of Jearom!"

"Yes, you _told_ me," Renn reminded Shrina pointedly, "several times, in fact… but even so, I- _yow!_ " Renn's surprised cry was occasioned by Shrina suddenly and unexpectedly snatching at the bracelet encircling her wrist, but as ever, the lunging hand came to an abrupt halt inches away from its target.

"Curses!" Shrina snarled, withdrawing her failed fingers, then scowling at her own bracelet, equally impossible to remove.

"I _wish_ you would stop doing that!" Renn complained, "what in the Wheel do you think you'll accomplish, beyond annoying the rest of us?"

"If I take the _ter'angreal_ by surprise, I may be able to grab it before my mind tells me not to," Shrina confusingly explained.

Renn thought about it… briefly. "That makes even less sense than anything else you ever say, Shrina!"

Shrina frowned. "I am _not_ some helpless, snivelling Princess, stuck up in an ivory tower," she revealed, with wounded dignity.

Renn did her best to assimilate this. "I know you are not, Shrina. Anyone can readily see that this isn't remotely what you are… and by the by, was there supposed to be some sort of point to that bizarre statement?"

"The _point_ , my dear Bookworm, is that I do not necessarily _wish_ to be rescued by the Twins, or anyone else for that matter… it would be embarrassing!" Shrina drew herself up with haughty resolve. "I mean to redeem myself from this odious captivity… and surely, even you can see that the first step in accomplishing this is to get rid of these _bloody bracelets!_ "

Shrina's voice had risen to a frustrated scream by the end of this statement, but Renn, long accustomed to the mercurial nature of her Green Ajah friend, simply blinked slowly and murmured; "the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills." She then cautiously moved closer to the edge of the terrace, examining the ancient ruins beyond. "An actual city of the Age of Legends!" Renn enthused, "or at least, what is left of one… who would have thought that such might still exist?"

Shrina pouted, misliking the rather obvious change of subject. "Tis a grim and dirty place," she muttered scathingly, though her sea-green eyes were involuntarily drawn to the impressive vista, even so.

"Those foundations!" Renn cried, gesturing at a circle of enormous, deep pits to the south, "they are vast indeed… the edifice that once loomed from them would have made the White Tower look no taller than a haystack!"

"Huh!" was Shrina's rejoinder, but sensing that something more might be required, she belatedly mumbled; "I have seen some pretty big haystacks in _my_ travels, I can tell you!" Thinking about this statement, appreciating its essential foolishness and rather wishing that she had not made so crass a comment, Shrina sought inspiration for a more intelligent remark… but Renn, yet staring in fascination upon the ancient, fallen metropolis, did not seem to have heard in any case.

"Ah, there you are, barbarian Aes Sedai! I have been seeking for you…"

Shrina turned, glaring at Dara as her tattooed face rose through the aperture set into the floor-tiles at the centre of the terrace, followed by the rest of her, clad in the dark robe with the pale cord belt that she had found somewhere within the wrecked palace. A spiral staircase wrought of some unknown alloy, provided access to the roof from the floor immediately beneath. Dara made her graceful way up the rest of these metal steps, before sauntering over to join them. The numerous swirling lines and dots that marked her haughty, dusky features made interpreting Dara's exact expression difficult, but Shrina perceived that the Sharan maiden was smiling her customary superior smile, full lips slightly curved. The young Green maintained a truculent, obstinate silence at Dara's approach, declining to offer her a greeting, whereas Renn did not appear to have noticed the Ayyad woman's advent, continuing to gaze down upon the remnants of Larcheen, as though compelled to.

Dara proceeded to do likewise, ignoring Shrina's hostile stare. "There survives nothing of so great an extent in Co'dansin," the Sharan channeler commented, "little remains of this antiquity… but for the western pyramids (which not even we Ayyad can explain the provenance of) the oldest architecture known to us dates from barely three millennia gone." She shrugged, seemingly speaking to herself as much to them. "There exist a few scattered fragments from the previous Age, of course, but…" Dara's voice faded into silence, apparently she was lost for words – a state that Shrina could only approve of! – but then the Ayyad maiden waved a long-fingered hand speechlessly at the ancient ruins. "I would never have imagined that anything like this could yet survive to these times…" Her dark, almost black eyes shifted out to the bay; "that immense bridge, most especially… what load-bearing material might it be fashioned of, to somehow have endured the cataclysmic World-Breaking?"

"Oh, there is one like it at Whitebridge, in Andor," Shrina commented airily, "such are to be found in the Westlands."

"There is?" Dara enquired, turning her penetrating gaze upon the young Green, "is this barbarian bridge as immense in size as _that?_ " She patronisingly pointed at the enormous span across the river, as though doubting Shrina would know to what she referred without a visual aid of some kind.

Shrina frowned. She would have dearly loved to answer in the affirmative, but the Oath against falsehood denied her this satisfaction. "Um… no. Not really."

Dara sneered and turned away, leaving Shrina to fantasise about shoving the irritating Sharan sneak off the roof… but Renn, finally becoming aware of the presence of someone other than Shrina, turned her head and stared at Dara owlishly. "Oh… hello Dara. I did not notice you. Was there any sign of Ellyth downstairs?"

Dara shook her head. "None. I see that she is not up here either… perhaps she went for a walk?" She glanced around the terrace. "Where is your noble eagle?"

"He is not _my_ eagle!" Renn snapped. Dara's eyes widened in momentary surprise. Renn composed herself. "Sorry, Dara, I didn't mean to be snippy... it is just that everyone thinks Aldazar belongs to me! He is his own eagle, really. And I never _asked_ the bothersome bird to follow me around everywhere I go, he just started doing it of his own accord!"

Dara shrugged, unconcerned. "It is a good omen, Rennetta," she assured the Brown Sister, "that a creature so fortuitous as the Great Sky Eagle would choose to serve you, should seek you out in distant lands beyond the horizon… truly, it can only mean that you enjoy the divine favour of the Holy Spirits!"

"Do you really think so?" Renn responded, eagerly. Dara nodded solemnly.

Shrina sniffed disparagingly, but was ignored by both young women, or perhaps they did not even hear as they began an esoteric discussion concerning signs, portents and other foolish things besides. Shrina blotted the chattering voices of Renn and Dara from her mind until they faded into a distant, background hum, whilst creeping as close to the edge of the terrace as she dared, scanning the empty, silent avenues far below. One concern currently occupied Shrina, to the exclusion of all else… where in the Waves had Ellyth disappeared off to _this_ time?

* * *

Ellyth sat within the rocking _palanquin_ , hands modestly folded in her lap, evincing a serenity and patience that she most certainly did not feel… but the young Aes Sedai had no intent of revealing her deep discontent to the fellow passenger seated alongside. Piper had his arms crossed over what were clearly false bosoms – woollen padding, apparently – leaning back, eyes half-closed, humming softly to himself. He appeared to be on the verge of dozing, but appearances could be deceptive…

Earlier, Ellyth had casually reached out to draw back the bead curtain that obscured her view of the outside world, in the hopes of determining their route. Instantly, Piper's dark eyes had snapped open, before narrowing slightly, and the curtain had whisked shut, moved by what could only be a weave of Air. Ellyth's captor had said nothing, returning to his reverie, but the implication was clear… she was not to be permitted knowledge of their location or destination. It had been a disconcerting moment; try as she might, Ellyth would never become accustomed to the disturbing reality of a man _channeling_ in her vicinity. For all that her own brother could reportedly touch the True Source…

Ellyth feared greatly for Thaeus. If the opportunity presented itself, she intended to obtain one of the bronze torc- _ter'angreal_ worn by the Laughing God's _Souvraniene_ followers, and present it to her younger sibling in the hope that it might preserve him from the dread Taint of the vile Dark One. For a time, at least… after all, Piper had rather derided the efficacy of these devices, had he not? Though derision seemed to come naturally to the eccentric young man. Well, Ellyth meant to possess one of these torcs in any case, by fair means or by foul. Foul, most probably.

Ellyth sighed. It had been some twenty minutes, or possibly as much as one half-hour, since they had set out in this cramped and uncomfortable contrivance. She was _bored_. Ellyth eyed Piper sidelong. "May I ask you a question?" she murmured.

Piper sat up a little straighter, yawned delicately behind a gloved and richly be-ringed hand, then nodded. "Fire away, your Ladyship. My answer may not be particularly truthful, though. I _do_ like to embellish dull facts with fanciful invention!"

"I imagine that you do." Ellyth shrugged, uncaring. "Tell me, if you please; how came you, an _Atha'an Miere_ mariner, to join the retinue of this Laughing God?"

Piper blinked his dark eyes, hesitated, then muttered; "oh. _That._ Well, since you ask, I-" Abruptly, the _palanquin_ tilted back a little, pressing them both against the rear of the compartment. "Uphill," Piper observed, "we're getting close…" He glanced at Ellyth apologetically; "it shall have to be the _short_ version, I am afraid…"

"I care not. Well?"

Piper lowered his voice a little, confidingly. "As you know, I am of Clan Tolaman by birth, a distant cousin to the young Do Miere A'vron Aes Sedai, your fiery-headed friend…" Piper touched a reddish lock of his wig wistfully. "I would that _I_ had flaming tresses near so fine as hers!"

Ellyth frowned. "I fear that you are becoming distracted from your answer, yes?"

"Apologies. Well, the ancestors of my lost clan served one Morgana Paendrag Halicon, the first Princess of her line, who inexplicably brought her people here some one-thousand years gone… the _Atha'an Miere_ who came with them had all sworn oaths of fealty to her fearsome father, the High King, and shipped aboard the warships of his navy as navigators, quartermasters and the like…"

" _This_ is the short version?"

"I take your impatient point, Aes Sedai! Well, moving on… after a couple of centuries or so, the few Tolaman left had grown disenchanted with their Shorebound allies, who by this had begun to call themselves the Hawx and were engaged in the building of that big, tasteless fortress set upon the Isle of the Spire…"

"I am familiar with it, yes?"

"I suppose you are, at that. By the by, I can't help but notice that you keep ending your sentences with the word 'yes?' Is there some reason for that?"

"It is a cultural idiom, yes? Continue!"

"Alright then… well anyway, the remnants of my folk rebelled, lit-out in the last great-ship left and didn't look back. Sailing north for the Isles of the Sea Folk was scarcely an option, since even had they survived the long and dangerous voyage in a leaky, worm-eaten old vessel, they were hardly popular with the other _Atha'an Miere_ Clans, on account of taking service with the Hawkwing… their reception would have been far from welcoming. Hungry sharks might have been involved? So, the survivors of Clan Tolaman set up on an outlying island – I shan't tell you which one, so don't even ask! – and have been living there ever since."

Ellyth repeated her frown, only more so. "I enquired as to how you came to join the forces of the Laughing God, Piper!" she reminded the youth, pointedly.

Piper pouted and responded sulkily; "have you ne'er heard tell of something called _context_ , Aes Sedai?"

"I _have_ , actually. But enough is as good as a feast, yes? Please abandon the contextual details and _do_ proceed with your explanation, before I die of old age…"

Piper sniffed. "Very well. We are now getting to the good bit, because actually, _I_ am in it! Anyhow, some eight-hundreds of years after those events, yours truly was born. As I am sure you can imagine, I was an extremely beautiful baby, admired and beloved by all." Ellyth made an impatient sound, which Piper ignored. "I might have done well within my clan, since I was gifted and popular…"

" _And_ modest!"

"…but misfortunately, as a promising young deck-boy with a perfect profile, I began to touch the Source. Imagine my embarrassment! Naturally, I did not _tell_ anyone, but well-knew that it was only a matter of time before one of those mean old Windfinders noticed that I could channel. It is hard to conceal that sort of thing."

"I am sure that it was."

"At this point in the proceedings, the handsome Hero of our story-"

"Whoever is that?"

" _Me_ of course! Hush! Stop interrupting! Anyway, our delightful protagonist was faced with a rather stark choice… I could consent to my clan's charming custom of chaining male-channelers to large rocks and dropping them into particularly deep parts of the Ocean… or I could choose an uncertain life of exile. A choice that was no choice at all, as far as I was concerned…"

"So, you..?"

"Waited for a dark and moonless night, stole a fishing boat and set sail for the mainland, to seek fame and fortune amongst my fellow Madmen! Luckily, I soon fell-in with the _right_ sort of _Souvraniene_ , who admitted me to their ranks and gave me a _ter'angreal_ to help stave off the dreaded Taint." For emphasis, Piper tugged down the black lace stretched about his neck, momentarily revealing the bronze torc. "All that was required in return was an oath of unswerving loyalty to the Laughing God… _Praise Him!_ "

Ellyth blinked in surprise whilst Piper chuckled softly. "And you have no regrets?" she wondered.

Piper shrugged. "Who does not live with regret? But the alternative would have been to wander about _Aisle Souvraniene_ , talking to myself whilst my body rotted away, slaughtering everyone I met until one of them slaughtered me first. I'll take a world of regrets over _that!_ " Abruptly, the _palanquin_ ceased moving and then was lowered to the ground with a thump. "I do believe that we have arrived," Piper remarked, then swept back the bead curtain and stepped down from the compartment.

Ellyth followed, accepting Piper's helping hand without comment, as she considered the tale of his origins. Well, the life of an exile, however hard, at least featured the word 'life,' which was preferable to death by drowning… in the young Sea Folk channeler's position, she would certainly have made the same decision. Too bad that this aligned the _Atha'an Miere_ youth with the enemy, the forces of that false, murderous Gleeman or God or whatever he was… Ellyth rather liked Piper, in truth. For all that he had an aggravating way about him… but then, what man did not?

These considerations melted away as Ellyth took in her surroundings… or one particular, unavoidable aspect of them, at least. The volcano that loomed over them was truly vast, its smoking summit all-but lost amongst the dark clouds that loured high above. Craning her neck back to stare and attempt an estimation of its great size, Ellyth decided that the volcanic peak was not quite so high as Dragonmount itself, but even so, the sheer mass of the lava-formation must far exceed that of the fabled death-site of the Dragon, covering acre upon uncounted acre. Naturally, Ellyth had glimpsed this distant volcano from the city of Larcheen a few times, but only in passing. She had thought it much further away, and part of an entire mountain range as opposed to a single peak. Up close, the smoking mount dwarfed mere humanity to insignificance, made one feel utterly lost in its shadow…

"Impressive, is it not?" Piper enquired rhetorically, adding conversationally; "the locals call it ' _Caisenvol_ ,' which means-"

"Old Father," Ellyth murmured, her limited knowledge of the ancient language of the Age of Legends equal to that translation, at least.

Piper grinned. "Indeed. Though we _Souvraniene_ have our own name for the volcano. We term it; ' _Kuthli Deyeniye_.'"

Ellyth blinked, confounded. She was uncertain as to what _this_ meant.

"Laughing Majesty," Piper explained, with a grin. He waved at the soldiers and slaves to wait, then made an elegant 'after you' gesture in the direction of a rocky path winding up into the volcanic foothills beyond. "Shall we?"

Ellyth hesitated. "Do I have a choice?"

Piper shook his head. "I really must insist, I am afraid. But don't you want to meet Drummer, Aes Sedai? He's eager to meet _you_." The Sea Folk youth lowered his voice conspiratorially, dark eyes flicking toward the soldiers loitering further down the path, grouped around the _palanquin_ and its attendant, kneeling slaves. "Trust me, it will be worth your while…" For once, Piper sounded almost serious, difficult though it was to take a young man draped in a scandalous dress particularly seriously…but his habitual, mocking mannerisms seemed to have momentarily departed.

" _Trust you?_ " Ellyth repeated, doubtfully. Piper nodded with slow significance. She sighed. "Very well. Lead-on, saucy wench!" Piper grinned again, blew Ellyth a kiss, then started up the path with a swaying, graceful gait. Ellyth trudged after, glumly considering her limited options. "Is it not rather perilous to locate a city so close to an active volcano?" she wondered, dark, perceptive eyes taking note of the wisps of ashen vapour venting from the summit, far above.

Piper unconcernedly answered over his shoulder; " _Caisenvol_ , along with most of the other volcanoes of _Aisle Souvraniene_ , is a product of the Breaking of the World, I do believe… it's not as though they built Larcheen next to it on purpose, after all. His Laughing Majesty just sort of turned up one dreadful day, rising out of the earth to everyone's horror, and there really wasn't much that the citizenry could do about it. Doubtless, most of them were dead by this point, anyway. The War took its toll down here, as it did everywhere else."

Ellyth dwelled upon these details for a moment, then demanded; "but what if the volcano were to erupt?"

"Oh, but it _has_ , several times over the last three millennia. Larcheen has been partially drowned in lava and covered in ash on numerous occasions, but the natives always turn up sooner or later, to dig out the ruins. I think that they're rather proud of the place, in a strange sort of way. The Midnight City is the closest thing that this benighted Land has to a Capital, truly the definition of eternal to the locals, which is about the only thing its denizens have ever agreed upon over the long years of its existence."

Ellyth considered this, framing her next question, but instead elected to save her breath for the climb. The rocky path gradually became steeper, though they were yet positioned upon the lowest flows of the looming, smoking mount. "I _do_ hope that this burning thing does not decide to drown us in boiling lava whilst we are stranded upon its Light-cursed slopes!" Ellyth muttered sourly. Piper did not seem to hear, he had paused on the path and looking beyond him, Ellyth could see that the well-trodden route they followed disappeared into a dark cave mouth set into the side of the volcano.

"Well, here we are again," Piper commented, seemingly speaking to himself as much as to Ellyth. The young Aes Sedai eyed the youthful male-channeler warily; he glanced at her and smiled his sly smile, before revealing that he had overheard her remark after all. "Do not concern yourself, my Lady… though _Kuthli Deyeniye_ most certainly _is_ awake, there have been no eruptions for a long time and shall hopefully be none soon, for we regularly appease the Volcano God to ensure our continued safety."

"However do you accomplish that?" Ellyth wondered absently, eyeing the steaming summit towering above her. It made the young Aes Sedai feel rather nervous, to be standing upon a deadly mount that might rain molten rock down upon her head at any moment…

Piper grinned. "Oh, it's quite simple, really… once a month, we _Souvraniene_ all troop up to the top of volcano and then draw straws… the unlucky Madman who comes up short gets chucked into the lava!" He sniggered. "We sing hymns of praise to the God of the Volcano too, and then we all have a pleasant picnic lunch!"

Ellyth frowned disapprovingly. "I do hope that ridiculous story is merely an example of your tasteless wit!" she chided.

"Oh, you're no _fun_ Aes Sedai!" Piper objected.

Ellyth smiled thinly. " _Good!_ I am glad that you think so, given the sort of low activities from which you presumably derive enjoyment, yes?"

Piper sniffed disparagingly, then flapped a hand at the cave mouth. "Come along, spoilsport!"

A tunnel, twice their height and thrice their width abreast, extended into the heart of the volcano dubbed 'Old Father.' Mid-way down the rough-hewn passage, Ellyth paused, examining one of the small, crystalline hemispheres set into the rock wall. It gave off only a muted glow but these lights, arranged at sporadic intervals, provided just enough illumination to guide their progress into the depths of the smoking peak. It was preferable to stumbling about in the dark, she supposed.

"What are these?" Ellyth enquired, recalling the glowing crystal lights in the Cenotaph of Naythan's Elder Brother, "they are akin to something I have see before."

"The illuminations? I don't think they even _have_ a name," Piper replied disinterestedly, adding; "Drummer made them."

"Drummer? You have mentioned this person previously… an acquaintance of yours, I take it?"

"You could say that," Piper responded, with a wry smile, then turned and continued down the tunnel. Ellyth frowned, and followed.

Further on, the passageway opened out into a large cavern, the roof of which was bedecked with shining, crystal shards, seemingly growing organically from out of the ceiling, rather than having been actually designed or constructed. A massive, round portal, fashioned of pale stone, was set into the far end of the cave. The rock-face surrounding it appeared shaped and smooth, at odds with the other, more uneven walls.

A man stood to either side of this portal, and though neither wore the red, laughing masks, Ellyth did not need to see or sense the bronze torcs about their necks to know that these two were more of the Laughing God's _Souvraniene_. Both men exuded the deadly confidence and arrogance that she had come to associate with these dangerous, warlike male-channelers.

"Salutations, Whistler," Piper called out to the tall man on the right, a cadaverous individual with deep-set eyes, a hooked nose and a shaven skull, clad in a loose, grey robe. Incongruously, his feet were shod in a pair of threadbare slippers.

Whistler nodded to Piper in greeting, then lived up to his name by pursing his lips and whistling appreciatively. "Well now, lovely Laurelai, don't you look pretty as a picture!" he observed in harsh tones. Piper simpered in ironic fashion, sketching a curtsy, and Whistler performed a sardonic, yet surprisingly formal bow in return.

Piper then glanced at the man standing to the left of the circular door, a squat, muscular specimen garbed in faded buckskins, a yellowing fleece thrown over his heavy shoulders. "I don't believe I know _you_ ," Piper observed, levelly.

"I am Strummer," the brutish-looking man replied, curtly.

"I thought Strummer was dead?" Piper queried.

Whistler shrugged. "He is the _new_ Strummer," he explained, before his gaze moved to Ellyth. "Aes Sedai," Whistler acknowledged, inclining his bald head slightly, then indicated the portal that he guarded. "Please to enter, you are expected." With a loud grinding of stone on stone, the circular door began to roll slowly aside.

Ellyth was uncertain if it was some working of _saidin_ that caused the portal to open, or via a more mundane mechanism. Reluctantly, she followed Piper toward the dark aperture now revealed. As Piper strutted past Whistler, he took the opportunity of attempting to lewdly pinch the tall man's bottom. Whistler grinned and slapped Piper's hand away, chuckling. Strummer stared blankly at the comic interplay, before directing an unfriendly gaze at the young Aes Sedai walking by. On impulse, Ellyth stuck her tongue out at him. Strummer blinked in surprise, before scowling darkly.

As the visitors entered a smooth-walled tunnel beyond the portal, the massive door rolled inexorably shut behind them. A pale glow was evident at the far end of the passage, some thirty paces away. "What became of the _old_ Strummer?" Ellyth enquired, misliking the way her voice echoed in the narrow confines of the tunnel.

"Nothing good," Piper responded enigmatically, as he led the way toward the light. At the end of the passageway, an extensive domed chamber stood revealed, carved into the bedrock of the volcano and lined with numerous archways leading elsewhere. It was lit by more of the softly glowing crystalline lights. A much larger clear hemisphere was set into the apex of the convex ceiling, casting pale illumination down onto numerous artefacts and devices arranged about the circumference of the curvilinear wall. No two of these objects were the same, they were constructed from a variety of materials; metal, wood, stone and substances altogether unknown.

Ellyth's particular Talent was reliably informing her that the majority of these items were _ter'angreal_ , most very new, some extremely old… but as with the devices of Power stored at the Cenotaph, she had no idea what any of them did, or for what use they had been made. Not for the first time, nor even the hundredth, Ellyth found herself wishing that her skill for locating _ter'angreal_ came with some sort of knowledge of their provenance and purpose… but it did not, so there it was.

Dominating the centre of the domed chamber stood a tall column, fashioned of clear crystal, looming over the various other paraphernalia scattered about. It really was rather untidy in here… dusty, also. Ellyth sneezed daintily, then dabbed at her nose with a grubby lace handkerchief. Piper lingered beside her, hands arranged upon slim hips, a small smile curving his lips. "Where-?" Ellyth began to ask, but then, a tall, well-built man stepped out from behind the crystalline column.

Ellyth's mouth snapped shut and she stared; whoever the stranger was, he was certainly an impressive example of manhood, easily a head over six feet in height and built like a wrestler, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. But it was his _face_ that held her attention; craggy, bold features, a deep, pale cicatrice marring the line of each cheek-bone and curving down to his square jaw… ritualistic scarring evidently, since it was unlikely that he would have received identical, mirrored wounds by happenstance. Though the big man looked barely beyond middle-age, the long mane that swept back from his high brow and down his back was silvery-white in hue, and reminded Ellyth sadly of Atual, who had always worn his hair similarly. She strongly doubted that this unknown personage hailed from Far Madding, though, or anywhere else that she was remotely familiar with…

The white-haired stranger was garbed in a long, dark coat and trews, both decorated along the seams with bronze buttons, as well as dull red calf-boots. He did not notice his visitors immediately, since he was otherwise engaged in the close examination of a small stone tablet held carefully in one large hand, eldritch symbols carved into both sides. Oddly, a wire frame was perched upon the crooked bridge of his nose, which looked to have been broken on more than one occasion, supporting round, glass lenses arranged before icy blue eyes. The obligatory bronze torc- _ter'angreal_ worn by the _Souvraniene_ servants of the Laughing God circled his bull-neck, appearing incongruously small in comparison with his generous physicality.

Though they differed considerably in more specific appearance, the mystery _Souvraniene_ rather reminded Ellyth of the big Aielman, Gerom, since they were of a size… equally, they appeared to share a similar air of studious detachment. And for all that he was clearly no Aiel, there was something decidedly deadly about this man.

Ellyth glanced at Piper, noting that the _Atha'an Miere_ youth was gazing upon the tall _Souvraniene_ with unmistakable fondness… so, it would seem that there was undoubted friendship there, and perhaps something more.

"Drummer!" Piper called, "a Sister of the White Tower to see you!"

The huge, scholarly man – Drummer, it would seem – looked up from the tablet at these words, carefully removing the wire-framed lenses from his nose and tucking them into a pocket. He blinked his chill, blue eyes slowly before examining Ellyth closely. She tensed a little beneath that cold, searching regard… there was something markedly inhuman about this penetrating gaze. Then, Drummer smiled tentatively, a surprisingly pleasant smile at that, though the effect was partially spoilt by the fact that his upper and lower eye-teeth were filed to points, giving a savage cast to the expression.

"I am honoured to welcome you to my workshop, Aes Sedai," Drummer rumbled in deep yet clear tones, speaking the Vulgar with a strange, sibilant intonation, the vowel sounds lengthened and oddly pronounced, "long have I wished to meet a genuine Servant of All from the distant northern continent."

Ellyth blinked. Well, he was polite at least, this Drummer who could apparently make _ter'angreal_ , though altogether fearsome in appearance. Still, one should not necessarily judge a book by its cover…

"The Lady Ellythia is _also_ a genuine aristocrat!" Piper revealed, with some irony. Drummer did not react to these words, but sketched a rather old-fashioned bow, sweeping back the long skirt of his dark, brass-buttoned coat and extending a large, booted foot. Ellyth responded with a graceful curtsy, then started forward, Piper at her side… but straightaway faltered to a halt, staring in consternation.

"Light! What in the Wheel is _that?!_ " Ellyth cried.

Something small and covered in brown hair had been lurking behind Drummer's wide neck… it now revealed itself, moving into view to better examine Ellyth with black, twinkling eyes. She gaped at it; a diminutive creature with a wizened face reminiscent of a human's, skinny arms and legs, a long tail curled about Drummer's throat. It crouched upon his wide shoulder for a moment, peering at Ellyth with interest, then uttered a high-pitched chattering sound and swarmed nimbly down to the stone floor, scampering rapidly toward her upon its four, hand-like paws!

" _Eeek!_ " Ellyth squealed, flinching back, "what _is_ it?"

"A _monkey_ ," Piper answered, watching with amusement as the strange little beast clambered briskly up Ellyth's dress to perch upon her reluctant shoulder. "Haven't you seen one before?"

" _No!_ " Ellyth shrieked, shuddering as the creature began to curiously twine its busy fingers in her hair, sniffing the chestnut locks with a small, pink nose, continuing to chatter away in its shrill voice.

"Be not so _mischievous_ , Aldo," chided a deep voice. Ellyth tore her nervous gaze from the poorly-behaved… _monkey?_ What a strange name! She stared up at Drummer, who now loomed before her. The towering _Souvraniene_ continued to berate what was presumably a pet of some kind; "for shame! This is no fit way to treat a guest… you know better than that!"

The monkey promptly ceased its unwanted exploration of Ellyth's coiffure and sprang from its perch with a loud whoop, landing dexterously back upon Drummer's broad shoulder and wrapping long, hairy arms about his thick neck. Drummer patted his pet gently on the head, then glanced apologetically down at Ellyth.

"Please forgive Aldo his excess of familiarity," Drummer requested softly, "he is an overly-curious creature and loves to meet new people, oft forgetting his manners in the excitement of the moment."

Ellyth opened her mouth, but for the life of her, could think of nothing to say. The monkey – _Aldo?!_ – scowled and bared sharp teeth at her, from the safety of his master's shoulder.

" _What_ manners?" Piper commented, as he stepped forward, then went up onto his tiptoes to peck Drummer on a scarred cheek. He slipped back, leaving a trace of rouge on the _Souvraniene's_ jaw.

"Hello, _bijoun_ ," Drummer absently greeted Piper, eyeing the exotically-garbed _Atha'an Miere_ youth with detached amusement. "I see that you wear your finery, this day."

"But of course," Piper responded, with a dazzling smile, primping a little, "it _is_ a special occasion, after all…"

"It is?"

"You have always wanted to meet an Aes Sedai, have you not? A _real_ Sister of the fabled White Tower, not one of those peculiar Witches of _Aisle Souvraniene_ who erroneously claim that title…"

"I suppose. Though you scarcely need an excuse to dress up, my dear."

"Naturally!"

Drummer carefully lowered Aldo to the floor and presented the monkey with the small stone tablet covered in symbols. "Put it back with the others, if you please."

Aldo ventured a quizzical expression with his bizarrely human and solemn old-man face, then obediently seized the tablet and raced away, seemingly unhampered by the fact that he was using only three paws on this occasion. Ellyth watched the strange creature disappear through one of the archways with some relief, then eyed the two _Souvraniene_ with her dark, perceptive gaze. She knew just enough Old Tongue to be aware that _bijoun_ meant 'flower.' The pair clearly had a relationship with each other that went beyond mere friendship. Opposites truly attracted, whatever the circumstances!

"Did you call that odd, man-like beast a... a _monkey?_ " Ellyth enquired, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

Drummer nodded. "Also known as a 'simian'" he explained, "there are a few of them in the woods hereabouts, that is where I found Aldo… he had been injured by a Snowcat. I Healed him and in gratitude, he chose to remain with me."

"Because of the free meals, you mean!" Piper remarked snidely.

"I have never seen anything like him," Ellyth commented, declining to add that she hoped she never did again!

"Neither had I," Drummer commented, "though I found a small amount of information about his species, including their names, in a very old zoological text. I do not believe that monkeys are native to this land, since there is no extant fossil record… possibly, some distant ancestor of Aldo escaped from a bestiary during the Breaking, along with his mate, and they bred in the wild."

Piper leered. "Wild mating, eh? I rather like the sound of that!"

Drummer ignored the irreverent youth, or perhaps he had not heard. Like Renn, he was clearly overly-cerebral, lacking much of an attention-span for what was going on around him whilst otherwise engaged in thought and discourse. Drummer continued to address Ellyth with respectful intensity, holding her gaze with eyes that seemed almost hypnotic in their arresting power. "I have heard much concerning the Aes Sedai of what you term the Westlands, though a deal of it is, of course, apocryphal… tell me, Ellythia Sedai, if you please; is it true that your noble sorority has existed ever since the Breaking of the World, that your Amyrlin and the seven Ajah were instrumental in restoring peace and order to this region of a ruined world?"

Ellyth nodded, and opened her mouth to further elucidate… but then, the tall, crystal column behind Drummer abruptly flared to life. Roiling, swirling colours bloomed within its confines, swiftly coalescing into a man-shape. More than a little surprised, Ellyth beheld the form of a slim, male personage of indeterminate age, floating within the column. He was bald, dusky-skinned and wore a pale robe of antique cut that left his right shoulder bare. His eyes, focused upon Drummer's broad back, gleamed with an unearthly golden luminescence. Seeing that Drummer had not noticed the appearance of this apparition, Ellyth pointed wordlessly, very much hoping that this was some sort of Age of Legends incorporeal messenger… and _not_ a ghost! After the regrettable incident with the horrid monkey, she had no wish to be haunted by spectral manifestations in addition…

Drummer turned curiously, blinked, then addressed the insubstantial man within the crystal column, which was evidently some sort of potent _ter'angreal_. "Seneschal? I did not summon you…"

The slender man shrugged bony shoulders, a surprisingly human gesture for an entity that was clearly inhuman, and responded in a remarkably toneless voice that echoed all around them, with no obvious source. "You instructed me to inform you should the temperature rise by a further degree," this Seneschal reminded Drummer.

"Yes… yes I did… and so?"

"The temperature has risen by a further degree."

Ellyth tore her gaze from the compelling figure within the _ter'angreal_ -column and glanced at Drummer in time to see him frown with concern, touching a thick finger to his lips as he considered this information. "This is not good," he muttered, to no-one in particular.

Ellyth eyed Piper questioningly, and the youth whispered in explanation; "Seneschal keeps an eye on the heat level at the centre of the caldera…"

" _Caldera?_ "

"Tsk! The big crater at the top of the volcano, my knowledgeable Ladyship… it would appear that we may actually be due for another eruption, and _soon!_ "

Ellyth's dark eyes widened… so, the volcano might well _explode_ while they were _inside_ the bloody thing! Come to think of it, the air within this domed chamber _did_ seem to be rather warm…

Drummer noticed that Seneschal was still extant, floating mutely within his column, golden eyes staring unblinkingly. "Was there something else?"

Seneschal nodded. "Yes. It is still your move."

Drummer blinked in confusion, before his expression cleared with realisation. "Oh… of course…" He considered a moment, then stated; "High Counsellor's Spire to Emissary seven. Check, I do believe."

Seneschal closed his glowing, golden eyes before immediately opening them again. He smiled faintly. "A wise gambit, Master Drummer. You noticeably improve at _tcheran_ with each new game. Would you care to hear my counter-move?"

Drummer shook his large head, long silver-white hair whisking against his broad back. "Not presently, Seneschal, I find myself preoccupied with other matters. Surprise me with it later, and be so good as to continue monitoring the temperature."

Seneschal bowed his head obediently to Drummer, glanced at Ellyth, then bowed even lower. "Honour to serve, Aes Sedai, " he murmured, after which his image dissipated into a host of multicoloured motes, which faded away until the crystal column became dormant once more.

"Seneschal never bows to _me_ ," Piper complained, resentfully.

Drummer smiled in commiseration, draping a companionable arm about the youth's shoulders. "Perhaps he does not recognise you, garbed thusly?" he suggested.

Piper pouted, then abruptly pulled off his red wig, revealing dark, wiry curls beneath, which he mussed with his fingers. "You should teach me _tcheran_ ," he suggested, "if I won a few games from Seneschal, I might win his respect also."

"You could try, I suppose," Drummer speculated, "though he is an excellent strategist. I have yet to beat him."

" _Tcheran?_ " Ellyth commented, "I know someone who plays this game…" She thought longingly of Naythan, then forced her mind back to the present.

"Interesting," Drummer observed, "there are few alive today who have ever even heard of _tcheran_ , let alone being cognisant of the rules. Seneschal taught it to me about a year ago, and we have often played since. A fascinating game."

"But where is the board?" Ellyth wondered, glancing around. Naythan had described the pieces to her, black and white, arranged upon a…

"Board?" Drummer repeated, then smiled shyly and tapped the side of his skull. "Why, it is in _here_."

Ellyth blinked, then returned her attention to the tall, quiescent crystal column, some ancient _ter'angreal_ of the Last Age, containing… what, exactly? "Who is this Seneschal?" she asked, " _what_ is he?"

"A computational-Construct," Drummer answered promptly, with a certain enthusiasm, "a diagnostic and theorem driven tool dating from the Age of Legends, though with the addition of a guiding personality, presumably to ease communication with whomsoever he assists."

"Not _much_ of a personality!" Piper muttered, under his breath.

Drummer smiled wryly, slipping his arm from Piper's shoulders and pacing over to the _ter'angreal_ -column, running large hands across its surface. "Seneschal was defunct when I first found him, deep beneath Hob's Hill…"

" _Caisen Hob!_ " Piper whispered to Ellyth, theatrically shading his mouth with his hand. She blinked, unsure quite what _that_ meant…

"…I was eventually able to repair Seneschal, more-or-less restoring him to functionality," Drummer continued, in his single-minded fashion, "it took many years, a process of trial and error. More error than trial, in fact. So much knowledge was lost, in the War and the Breaking… at times, I despaired of success."

Ellyth recalled one of the sole words from Drummer's explanation that had been remotely familiar to her, let alone comprehensible... "A… Construct?"

Drummer nodded slowly. "Indeed. A life-form made, not by the Creator, but by an Aes Sedai, long ago. One Jorlen Corbesan, Seneschal informs me. An inventive genius of the Last Age… a prodigious talent. Most Constructs were not beings formed of light and controlled by reason, as is Seneschal, but rather, were biological in nature…"

"I am aware of this!" Ellyth stated impatiently, "I _know_ one!"

Piper and Drummer exchanged mute glances. "You know one what?" Piper asked, with annoying obtuseness.

"I know a _Construct_ … a Lightborn, as they were termed, during the War with the Shadow."

The pair of _Souvraniene_ – or perhaps it might be more accurate to think of them as a couple? – continued to stare at Ellyth with a lack of comprehension that she found quite aggravating. She abandoned her explanation. "Why did you bring me here?" she asked quietly, "over and above the high honour of meeting an Aes Sedai?" Ellyth smiled thinly. "I am assuming that my presence was not required in order that I might be introduced to your disconcerting monkey-creature, or to your _ter'angreal_ -Construct, Seneschal?"

"It might have been!" Piper suggested portentously, hinting at a mysterious motive that clearly did not exist. Or did it?

Drummer waved a hand at Piper, effectively silencing him, something that Ellyth suspected few others were able to accomplish quite so easily… The scholarly _Souvraniene_ lowered his deep voice significantly. "All is not as it seems."

"Is it ever?" Ellyth responded pointedly, but felt curious despite herself.

Drummer glanced at Piper. "Make us private, would you?"

Piper winked. "Your every wish is my command!" He then closed his dark eyes, concentrating.

Ellyth had no way of knowing if Piper was channeling _saidin_ or not, but presumed this to be the case. "A privacy-weave?" she wondered. Drummer nodded. "But why?"

"Those two red-masks outside," Piper murmured, his eyes snapping open, his manner become atypically serious, "Whistler and the new Strummer, who I rather mislike the look of, and not just because he his short and ugly! Think you they are posted here simply to ward this place from intruders, Aes Sedai?"

"They are not," Drummer stated, fatalistically, "there are always a pair of _Souvraniene_ guards placed without my workshop to watch me, to report on my activities and movements."

"Report to whom?" Ellyth enquired, though thinking about it, suspected that she already knew.

So did Drummer. "I believe you are well aware of who it is that controls this place and its people, for all that he seldom visits Larcheen anymore… the one who had you brought here against your will, who personally accomplished this crime… the Laughing God."

Ellyth's eyes narrowed, in painful memory of that particular betrayal. "He said his name was Jeb Simanon, or something like that," she muttered angrily.

Drummer nodded. "Jebedah Chul Simanon. That _was_ his name, once, when he was still a man. Now... now he is something more… and also, _less._ He is the Laughing God." He sighed deeply. "He is our manipulative Master in all things, we _Souvraniene_ who serve him… and more to the point, regarding myself… well, he has not entirely trusted me for a long time, near a century, in truth…"

Ellyth found herself wondering about Drummer's age, but even more so concerning his motives...

"The God would have disposed of Drummer long since," Piper added morbidly, "me too, as he knows we're close… but he _needs_ him, you see, to make _ter'angreal_ and accomplish other tasks that the rest of us cannot even contemplate."

"How do you do it?" Ellyth demanded eagerly of Drummer, "actually constructing devices that utilise the One Power? No-one has managed it for thousands of years!"

"I am aware of that." Drummer shrugged his wide shoulders. "I taught myself this lost skill, back in the early days… it took a very long time to master the art of creating and duplicating _ter'angreal_ , but I managed eventually, to an extent at least. Though I am not sure that it was even worth the effort."

Ellyth blinked, considering. "If you do not mind my asking, Master Drummer, how _old_ are you?"

"I have walked this Land of the Madmen for more than three-hundred years," Drummer wearily revealed, "but the Laughing God is older even than I, possibly a great deal older."

"He never discusses his age," Piper interjected, watching Ellyth carefully, "nor his origins. The God is more powerful than any of us, even Drummer, there are none alive who can match him."

Ellyth returned the serious gazes of Drummer and Piper for a long moment, then impatiently urged; "whatever it is that you feel you must say to me, kindly just _say it._ "

Drummer hesitated, then spoke softly. "Would you and your companions be free, Aes Sedai? Do you wish to escape this dead city?"

Ellyth nodded firmly.

Piper smiled wickedly. "My! What a coincidence… because so do _we!_ "

* * *

 **Act Two :** _ **The Isle of the Spire**_

Chantel Paendrag Tavor, High Princess of the Hawkwing's Blood, stood at the tall, narrow window, gazing out into the night. Her extensive quarters, occupying the upper floors of the largest and most impressive tower that the Castle of the Hawx could boast, were well-supplied with a variety of windows, but this one was her favourite. Not due to the small balcony, which the Princess tended to avoid because she secretly feared heights – only Rags knew of her phobia and had earnestly promised to not tell anyone – but on account of the view that the window afforded. The mainland. The vast territory stretching away to the distant ice-bound south; the mysterious unknown continent which her forebears had sought to rule, that her ancestors had spent the last millennia attempting to conquer in the name of the High King's Law.

Chantel frowned, finely-delineated brows drawing down over large, dark eyes, her pretty mouth pouting slightly. Some joke! Her fief consisted solely of this small island with its protective Age of Legends Spire, around which her few remaining subjects huddled like frightened sheep. The Land itself… _that_ belonged to the Madmen, and always had, ever since the Breaking of the World. Or more specifically, it was the province of one _Souvraniene_ in particular, whose very name gave the children of the Hawx – and doubtless, their parents also – terrifying nightmares… he who titled himself 'the Laughing God.'

Chantel squinted, peering in the direction of the landmass that lay across the mile-wide strait that separated order from chaos. She could not actually see the cliffs or forests in the darkness, but detected that there were large fires burning over there, on the mainland. Something was going on. Her own people's doing, perhaps, search-parties or punitive raids… but more likely, it was the debased inhabitants of this primeval territory, up to no good… the savages.

Chantel shivered slightly. The natives of this Land of Madmen; they _ate_ people… each other, mostly, but anyone else who had the misfortune to fall into their clutches. And the cannibals were not even the worst of it… there were Witches, of course, and the _Souvraniene_ , after whom this cursed land had been named. But most disturbing of all, down in the arid expanse encircled by its ring of attendant volcanoes, termed 'the Wastelands,' dwelt vicious creatures of evil aspect, known to all as 'Fox-Daemons.' Rags had told her stories about them… but only when old Severina wasn't there to disapprove, naturally.

 _Were_ the Fox-Daemons real, or just another of the Court Fool's fanciful inventions? Despite the fact that their presumed existence scared her, Chantel rather hoped that they _did_ exist, that there were extant such interesting beings as these fell Daemons… when she was all grown-up, she would very much like to lead an expedition down to the Wastelands to capture one, bring the monster back to the Castle in a cage and show it off to her subjects. That might be fun… assuming that any of them survived the many perils of the long journey there and back again. But the Princess considered that such an adventure would certainly make a nice change from languishing in her tower, being instructed by Severina and a selection of boring tutors in the hollow duties of a meaningless and mostly powerless position, with only the addled imagination of Rags for diversion!

Chantel sighed, loudly and pointedly. Behind her, she heard the monotonous clicking of Severina's knitting-needles pause. "Come away from the window, Majesty," Severina called out in her husky voice, not quite a command but definitely more than a mere request.

Chantel ignored these words and turned, regarding the Chatelaine of her Castle imperiously. "There are strange events transpiring out there, beyond the waters," she observed in her customary measured, precise cadences, flavoured with the accents of privileged nobility, before demanding; "what is going on, Sev? Tell me!"

Severina lowered the anonymous purple thing that she was working on, silver knitting-needles catching the dim light from the guttering fire in the hearth, and returned Chantel's haughty gaze coolly. A tall woman, she was almost at the Princess's eye-level whilst seated in her favourite chair, a high-backed oaken article, bereft of cushions. "Please to remove yourself from the vicinity of the window, Majesty," Severina required, "it is not safe for you to stand there, in plain sight."

Chantel sniffed, dismissively. "Assassins?" she enquired, in disparaging tones, "arrows flying from out of the darkness? Or mayhap some wicked Witch shall send her trained _bats_ to slay me, their teensy claws coated with lethal _poison?!_ "

Severina blinked. "Poisoned bats?" she murmured, wonderingly.

Chantel smirked. "Something that Rags warned me of…"

Severina frowned disapprovingly. "You should not listen to that stunted lunatic's tall-tales and half-truths, Majesty! Rags is a _fool!_ "

"I am well aware of _that!_ " Chantel responded hotly, obstinately placing her hands on slim hips, "he is _my_ Fool, in point of fact… the Court Fool!"

Severina shook her head slowly, then discarded the nascent knitting and rose, smoothing the folds of her pleated gown. Her long, greying hair fell in a thick braid, almost down to her slippered feet. When she spoke, her voice was maddeningly patient; "I do not refer to his _position_ … I mean that Rags really _is_ a fool!"

Chantel pouted again. "He is wiser than you think," she muttered, sulkily.

"Majesty, I beg of you, if you _must_ stand by that cursed window in full view of a watcher below, at least do so whilst wearing garb of a darker shade…"

Chantel glanced down at her shimmering, pale gown. "I don't care for black garments, they remind me of funerals. Whatever is wrong with this dress, Sev?"

Severina took a step forward, clasping her hands before her. "It makes of you an easy target for anyone out there, lurking in the night, who may mean you harm!"

Chantel reacted triumphantly. "Ah-ha! So you _do_ admit that there are enemies about, that there is trouble afoot?!"

Severina sighed loudly. "I admit nothing of the sort, Majesty. Now, please would you-"

"I shall move away from this window if – and _only_ if! – you tell me what is taking place in _my_ castle! Why do the alarm bells ring? For what reason do the Hawk Guard patrol the walls in strength?" Severina sighed again. "And stop _sighing!_ If you keep doing it, I shall start to suspect that you've fallen in love with someone!"

Severina grimaced at the thought, raised her eyebrows, then extended a long-fingered hand. After a momentary hesitation, Chantel reluctantly took it in her own and allowed herself to be led away from the window and deeper into her apartments. In the central atrium there resided a large fountain surrounded by a circular coping, where water splashed softly and fat orange fish swam to and fro amongst the lilies. They seated themselves upon the low wall around the pond and Chantel, after prodding at one of the fish in a desultory way, eyed Severina with dark, knowing eyes; the cool gaze of maturity exuding from the smooth features of a girl of thirteen summers.

"I _know_ that there has been another escape, that the Witches have fled," Chantel declared, "their protector also, the Sea Folk swordsman who was wounded. Oh, and the remaining peculiar outlander, the woman with bizarre tattoos upon her face. She's gone too."

Severina frowned. "Who told you this, Majesty?" she coldly enquired.

"One of my maids did, actually."

"Which one?"

Chantel scowled. "Torture me if you like, I shan't tell!"

Severina's lips compressed grimly. "No? Then I am afraid that they shall _all_ have to be punished."

Chantel glared at her Chatelaine. "Don't you _dare_ whip my maidservants, Severina! There shall be _trouble_ if you do."

Severina glared back. "It lies within my powers and prerogatives to ensure the security of the Castle, as well as the safety of your person, High Princess."

"Oh blah-blah!" Chantel rudely responded, before jabbing a richly be-ringed finger at Severina. "Do _not_ threaten my girls, Sev, and don't try to bully _me_ either… I'm not a little child anymore, I am too old for you to spank!"

Severina replied icily, and a little menacingly also. "Oh really? Are you quite _certain_ of that, High Princess Chantel Paendrag Tavor?"

Chantel did her best to retain a modicum of composure, but could not quite stop herself from swallowing nervously. Severina had that effect on her… on just about everybody within the Castle of the Hawx, for that matter. "Fairly certain…"

Severina smiled one of her rare smiles, a surprisingly warm expression for someone of so stern and censorious a demeanour. "Well, I suppose you are older now, at that." She considered a moment, then quietly revealed; "the Aes Sedai witches _have_ absconded, Majesty, I am sorry to confirm that these rumours are quite true."

"I knew it!"

"The _Atha'an Miere_ Gaidin also, _and_ the female-channeler who claimed to hail from fabled Shara…"

"Drat!"

"No few of the Guard were slain during this escape, both down on the shore and within the lower cells themselves…"

"Oh no! Anyone who will be sorely missed?"

"Not particularly, Majesty. The only Officers lost were Captain Tyrile and Lieutenant Ausen."

"Tyrile was an odious sneak and I'm not even sure who this Ausen _was_ … but how did the Witch-women accomplish all of this mayhem? With their evil channeling?" Severina confined her answer to a meaningful glance across the fountain. Chantel followed her mute gaze and beheld, through a narrow embrasure, the dark outline of the towering Spire looming up into the night sky beyond the Castle, the ancient artefact that gave the Isle its name and protected them all from the depredations of the dreaded One Power. "No, I suppose not," Chantel murmured, feeling foolish. "So _how?_ "

Severina looked mildly uncomfortable at this consideration, which for her was even rarer than smiling. When she finally spoke, Chantel could not help but note that the grim Chatelaine had lowered her voice even further – the Princess had to strain her ears to properly hear – and was clearly choosing her words with care. "Not all of the evidence has been adequately gathered, Majesty, but it would seem that the Witches almost certainly had help from outside, in conducting their escape from the cells. Some of their confederates may have breached the defences of the Island… the small canoe that was stolen in the previous escape by the twin Warders-"

"They were _so_ handsome!"

"-and the Sharan youth-"

"Even handsomer, but for those yucky tattoos!"

"-was found abandoned in a cove, out by Larynda's Point…" Severina hesitated.

"What is it, Sev?" Chantel urged.

"Only that a pair of Guards patrolling the beach below the Castle were attacked, knocked unconscious and left bound and gagged in one of the war-craft… they later reported that something with glowing eyes came out of the night and violently assaulted them, utilising great strength and speed… they claim that it was not human." Severina was looking vaguely uncomfortable, Chantel well-knew that her Chatelaine and unofficial nursemaid deplored anything that did not fit within her rational beliefs, her preference for ordered logic.

"I wonder what it was?" Chantel mused, "glow-in-the-dark eyes… strong _and_ fast… _not_ a man…" her mouth dropped open; "of course! A Fox-Daemon!"

"A _what?_ " Severina snapped.

"Something Rags told me about, a scary manner of monster that lives down in the Wastelands… well, I expect it has gone now, whatever it was. A shame, really, I should have liked to see it for myself… from a safe distance, naturally."

Severina frowned with disapproval. "Rags should know better than to misinform you regarding such… there are more than enough _real_ dangers to trouble the Land of Madmen, without that eccentric lack-wit inventing further sources of-"

"Fox-Daemons _are_ real, Rags swore that they were upon his Gleeman's Oath… he would never lie about something under _that_ duress!"

Severina sniffed disparagingly. "Gleemen!" she sneered, "a pack of worthless wastrels, by all accounts… it is well that there were none infesting this place when your glorious ancestor, Morgan Paendrag Halicon, brought her people here…"

"And I thank the Divine Creator that she did!" Chantel muttered sarcastically.

"…why, the complete absence of Gleemanry is one of the few positive considerations concerning these uncivilised lands."

"Well, Rags always says that he is glad that there are no _Bards_ here, either!"

"A Bard would be acceptable at Court. A Gleeman? Definitely not."

"Well, isn't that rather why mother made Rags her Court Fool in the first place? After the scouts found him washed ashore from that wrecked ship and brought him back to the Castle? I don't really know, I wasn't born yet…" Severina nodded impatiently, but Chantel shrewdly took note of the way her dark eyes shifted to the sides a little, not quite meeting her gaze. "There's something else, isn't there?" the Princess softly speculated, "you haven't told me quite everything, have you Sev?"

Severina frowned slightly, then reluctantly nodded. "Your talent for detecting unspoken truth improves apace, Majesty. You shall make an excellent Ruler of your subjects, when you come of age."

"And rule over _what_ , exactly?" Chantel bitterly demanded, "a flyspeck island stuck off the coast of the worst place in the world, with a waning population, internecine feuding and only some silly old Spire to preserve us all from the bloody Madmen?!" Severina scowled disapprovingly, but Chantel ignored her disapprobation with the ease of long usage, adding; "and don't try to change the subject with empty compliments, Sev! That hasn't worked on me for ages… now what it is that you _aren't_ saying, about the escape of the Witches and the other prisoners?" Severina sighed yet again. "And _stop_ that flaming sighing!"

The Chatelaine of the Castle paused, considering, then leant toward Chantel, her manner conspiratorial. "That the Witches and their associates were aided in being redeemed from captivity is incontrovertible… but this aid may not have solely come from beyond the Isle of the Spire…"

Chantel's brow furrowed with confusion and concern. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"The prisoners might have had help from _inside_ the Castle… I fear that there are those amongst the People of the Hawk who cannot be trusted, who may well be in league with both the Aes Sedai Witches, and…" Severina hesitated, then hissed; " _him!_ "

Chantel was perfectly well aware of whom this pronoun portended. There was but one man within the Land whose name was roundly avoided in like fashion. "The Laughing God!" she whispered, excitement vying with trepidation inside her mind.

Severina nodded curtly and rose, Chantel joining her as they made their way through a tall arch and into the foyer, lined with ancient statuary depicting strange beasts the like of which the Princess had never seen in life, and rather doubted the existence of. Especially the big flappy-eared one, with the absurdly long nose…

Severina grimly continued her report; "one of the Laughing God's galleys was sighted by our scouts, whilst out patrolling the western coast… it rounded the headland and turned south, presumably returning to the Dead City. Another prisoner from the deep cells, a Witch taken captive on the mainland some months ago, also went missing… her body was later found buried in a shallow grave at one of the northernmost sea-caves of this Isle, apparently slain with the One Power. There were no marks of violence upon her, in any case. And of course, the most damning evidence of betrayal is the fact that both the Gaoler and an apprentice Physician were drugged with sleep-herb, rendered unconscious to abet the escape of their charges. This could only have been done by someone with access to the Castle and a knowledge of its interior." Severina paused, staring down at Chantel levelly. "There is almost certainly an enemy within."

Chantel's dark eyes widened. "But who-?"

Abruptly, the ornate, double-doors leading to the outer hall were unceremoniously kicked open. Immediately, a long stiletto blade appeared in Severina's hand and she swiftly placed herself between Chantel and a possible assassin… but it was only Rags, the unusual Court Fool.

Chantel stared; not at the multicoloured motley sewn with small silver bells that the short, strange man wore, she was accustomed to seeing this… but rather, at what he held. "Rags! _Knock_ , curse you! And what in the Wheel is _that?!_ "

Rags manipulated a pair of crossed sticks in his hands, attached strings descending to a grotesque, garishly-painted marionette. The carved, wooden figure resembled a grim old man with an iron-grey beard, his red lips set in a stern and rather grumpy expression, googly blue eyes staring wildly. The thick wooden torso and jointed limbs were clad in a suit of golden, scaled armour, a winged coronet of the same metallic hue set upon the ashen head and a silvery sword gripped in one fist.

Rags did not straightaway answer the angry query of his High Princess, but instead capered in the wide doorway, the bells on his coat, trews and pointed shoes tinkling merrily. At the same time, the Court Fool skilfully twitched the flat wooden sticks and thence the strings, making the puppet caper also. It was an odd sight.

Chantel gaped at the marionette, which clearly represented a King of some kind… and though she had never seen that carven face before, there seemed to be something oddly familiar about it. While Severina deftly returned her stiletto to wherever she kept it hid, scowling darkly at the scurrilous Court Fool, the Princess wondered; "who is that ridiculous dummy supposed to be, Rags?"

Rags grinned toothily. "Why, tis himself... Artur Hawkwing!" he replied, cheerfully.

Chantel's mouth dropped open even further as she stared at the face of the puppet, a cruel caricature, the crude marionette dancing woodenly upon its strings. Then, she shrieked with laughter. "Oh no!" the Princess spluttered, when she could speak again, "that's _terrible!_ "

Without moving his lips too much, Rags produced a squeaky, slurring voice whilst making the puppet dance in circles. " _I be the High King of the World!_ " Rags tugged a string and the wooden hand holding the painted silver sword swept upwards, waving about. " _Wiv my sword Justish, I shall conquer thish Land of Madmen!"_

Chantel's scandalised mirth redoubled, but Severina most certainly was _not_ amused. "Rags, you filthy swine! You _dare_ to denigrate the blessed name of Artur Paendrag Tanreall by making of him an ugly toy? Why, it is pure blasphemy!"

"No it's not," Rags objected, "tis a _marionette!_ "

Chantel darted forward, grabbing the crossed wooden sticks. "Let me have a go, Rags… _you_ do the funny voice and _I'll_ make him jump about!"

"Yes, your Majesticness… careful now, don't get the strings all tangled…"

"You should be put to the torment for this insult against the High King's memory!" Severina snarled wrathfully.

Rags responded to this threat via further ventriloquism; " _no he shouldn't!_ " piped the Hawkwing marionette, as Chantel made its head swivel to stare commandingly at Severina, " _don't torment the fine fellow, in shtead I shall make him my besht Governor of Aisle Shouvraniene because he be sho handshome and clever!_ "

Chantel giggled girlishly, whilst making the puppet of her ancient ancestor march up and down importantly. Apoplectic with rage, Severina opened her mouth to further lambaste the insolent and irreverent Court Fool… but the Princess glared at her. "Shut-up, Sev!" Chantel forestalled her Chatelaine, "we're just having some fun, the Hawkwing wouldn't mind… anyway, he's been dead for a thousand years, so who cares? Don't be such a prig…" Severina's mouth snapped shut, and after a final murderous glare at Rags, she stalked away from the foyer, stomping down a rear corridor. Chantel and Rags watched her go, then eyed each other drolly. The marionette appeared to observe the Chatelaine's furious exit also, staring with its painted wooden eyes. The swift steps faded, followed by the sound of a slamming door in the distance.

"The fearsome Lady Severina doesn't much care for me, does she?" Rags whispered.

"Not one bit!" Chantel softly confirmed, "for she does not see your good points, only the bad…" The High Princess of the Hawx smiled cunningly, glancing at Rags sidelong. "We've just had a little chat, Sev and I… most illuminating. Of course, I _knew_ that you were going to drug the Gaoler – it was _my_ idea, after all – but the young Physician too? Nice touch, Jeb!"

The Laughing God, who had worn a great many guises in the course of his long life, chuckled quietly and winked. The High Princess winked back.

* * *

 **Act Three :** _ **Stedding Dashai**_

Mitsu, Sworn Bloodknife of the Seanchan Empire, sat cross-legged beneath a spreading chestnut tree, growing at the edge of a small dell. Her heavy, curved sword was laid across her knees, small yet powerful hands resting on hilt and blade, both marked with the Heron sigil. Her dark, tilted eyes were tightly closed and she breathed slowly, deep and even; in through the nose, out through the mouth. Usually, the _Ko'di_ came to Mitsu with ease; the detached mental state taught in the first stage of her training, after she was accorded the high honour of being chosen as… as a…

 _Kneeling in a line with the four other candidates selected from the Fists of Heaven… to Mitsu's right; Mashi waited, a slight woman with coal-black skin, closely-cropped curls and predatory eyes. Numerous sheathed throwing-knives were strapped to her person; scabbarded at waist, thighs and arms. Mashi could hit an enemy in whichever eye she chose from twenty paces with these abbreviated, perfectly-balanced blades… she_ never _missed. To Mitsu's left; Danao knelt patiently, a small smile curving the lips of his pale, boyish features. He possessed the smooth, guileless face of an innocent child… and the twisted soul of a ruthless killer. In the midst of battle, Danao would often giggle in delight as he slew his foes. Further along the line, Bethaan and Hijiro also waited; they were from a different company of the Fists and Mitsu did not know much of them, but if they were not equally skilled at dealing death then the pair would never have been chosen. All five Fists of Heaven were to be trained together, and if they proved worthy, they would… would become…_

Mitsu's eyes snapped open and she scowled. This was no time for idle reminisces… she needed to exist solely within the present. The past was dead and the future had yet to occur, only the _now_ was of import. Mitsu closed her eyes again, exerting a powerful will over her senses, stilling her faculties, slowing her breathing, once more seeking the _Ko'di_ … the calm before the storm. But against Mitsu's volition, her mind was unwillingly drawn back to that day on the Field of Luthair, beyond the towering walls of Seandar, where scant years ago she had first taken her Vows and spoken her Oath as… as a…

 _"She comes!" Mashi hissed, and Mitsu risked a swift glance before dropping her gaze back to the dusty ground before her._

 _"Might She Live Forever," Danao drawled softly, and as usual, Mitsu was uncertain whether the deadly youth was being serious or jesting._

 _To Mitsu, the momentary glimpse of the approaching group filled her perception, focusing her utmost devotion. Certainly not directed at the squad of Deathwatch Guards pacing about the visitors, red and dark-green armoured elite human warriors and huge Ogier Gardeners. Nor was it focused on the smaller circle of the Blood that walked within this protective ring, though her patron the High Lord Turak was present along with a half-dozen well-born Nobles of almost equal importance. Mitsu's devoted attention was neither held by the quartet of hereditary So'jhin servants, arrogance personified, distinguished with the distinctive coiffures of their rank, hair shaved upon one side of their heads and hanging in long braids on the other. And not even by the notorious Soe'feia, Anatoini Two-tongues, Truthspeaker to the Crystal Throne, the sole person within the entirety of the Empire who possessed the prerogative to say the unsayable._

 _No, Mitsu's devotion was directed purely toward the diminutive woman who moved at the centre of this group, much as She ruled absolutely at the heart of the great continent of Seanchan, holding the lives of every one of its enormous populace in the grasp of her small hands, the nails long and lacquered. It was She to whom Mitsu had sworn life and soul and sword, none other. She who had taken the name 'Radhanan' on acceding to the throne, a name never to be used to her face, upon peril of the most terrible of deaths in the Tower of Ravens… it was the Empress. Might She Live Forever._

 _Mitsu kept her eyes fixed firmly upon the ground, but her ears listened intently to the sound of the approaching party, multiple footsteps crunching in the dry dirt of Luthair's Field. Here; countless mock battles had been fought in near one thousand years of martial history, the place where the Ever Victorious Armies of the Seanchan Empire had been taught the arts of war, the cost of conquest._

 _The footfalls ceased nearby, then one single set of feet resumed, moving with slight, measured steps toward the quintet of kneeling Fists of Heaven. They stopped. And then, the voice spoke. Not the Voice of the Empress, her Truthspeaker, but Radhanan Solea Paendrag herself, Blood of the Hawkwing, addressing Mitsu and the others personally, in chilled, cut-glass tones…_

" _Speak your Oaths, then rise and take your place amongst the elite of the elite, the peerless life-takers of the Seanchan Empire. Speak, my loyal Bloodknives…"_

 _Along with her four comrades, Mitsu promptly opened her mouth, and spoke..._

Mitsu blinked her eyes wide and shook her head angrily. The _Ko'di_ , the Void, the Oneness… call it what you will, try as she might, it would _not_ come to her. She thought she knew why. She was not the same person she had been. She had changed. Instead, there was the past rather than the present, overwhelming remembrance of the proudest day of her life. The occasion on which the Empress, Might She Live Forever, spoke directly to Mitsu, and not through an intermediary… commanding her to say her Oath and cast away life, embracing death as a Bloodknife of the Empire.

True, later when Mitsu had finally completed her extensive and arduous training and had been presented with her Ring of Shadows… _that_ had been an almost equally notable experience. The favoured daughter and heir of the Empress, Tuon Athaem Kore Paendrag, had personally gifted Mitsu with the ancient _ter'angreal_ -ring that was the symbol of her hard-won station, had even spoken a few kind words to her. A great honour. But the ceremony at which Mitsu had been addressed by the Empress, Might She Live Forever… that had veritably been the high point of her existence, an event that eclipsed all else that had befallen her.

Mitsu frowned, dwelling upon her missing Shadow Ring, a dark, vine-shaped circlet adorned with thorns. It made her feel incomplete to be without it, this distinctive device to be used only in the last extremity of her duties. For all that activating the Ring with her life's blood would spell her own death, that she had always associated the lethal _ter'angreal_ with her personal doom… Mitsu badly wanted it _back!_

But the Aes Sedai, the _marath'damane_ who had confiscated it, had subsequently been taken captive by these mysterious 'Hawx' who held sway in the northern parts of this accursed Land. Presumably, _they_ now had Mitsu's Shadow Ring, those savage warriors who bore tattoos of a hawk in flight etched into their skin, much like her own. A common device of needle and ink, often sported by soldiers of the Seanchan Empire, as well as the forces of the High King, long before that… Mitsu wondered about this. It seemed an odd coincidence, and one that required explanation… she suspected the Chami of keeping many secrets from her, this being but one of them.

A long shadow fell over Mitsu. One does not take a Bloodknife by surprise, or approach her unnoticed, and Mitsu already well-knew who it was. "Balal," she acknowledged softly, without troubling to look up.

"Human," responded an extremely deep voice. A pause, then the sonorous tones added; "that is to say; _Bloodknife_."

Mitsu rose smoothly to her feet, sliding the Power-wrought blade into the scabbard at her back with a single, deft motion, then stared up at Balal interrogatively. He was quite simply the largest Ogier that she had ever encountered, a formidable, hulking presence, his great shaggy head and barrel-chest protected by ornate, sung-wood armour. Huge, cold eyes gazed down at Mitsu, holding little in the way of approval – Balal had no particular love for humans – but at least there was respect there. Over the three days since the siege of Stedding Dashai had begun in earnest, Mitsu had made herself extremely useful in the defence of the last Ogier domain yet to fall to the forces of the Laughing God.

"Is it time?" Mitsu asked, quietly.

Balal had a long-handled axe with an enormous, bramble-engraved blade, propped upon one massive shoulder. He swung the heavy weapon down, testing the keen edge with his thumb, drawing a line of blood. "It is."

Mitsu nodded, then scanned the clearing behind Balal, noting that it was empty. "Where are the others?" she wondered, not particularly caring what the answer might be.

"There _are_ no others, Mitsu-called-Bloodknife," Balal explained, "there is just _me_." Mitsu did not bother to ask why this was the case, but there remained a faint trace of curiosity in her cold eyes. Balal chose to answer this unspoken question; "scouting the enemy has become too dangerous, several of my Guardians have not returned from their patrols of late… I will not send any more of my people to their deaths, I shall go myself. As Leader, it is my responsibility and mine alone."

Mitsu shrugged, unconcerned, then turned, gazing into the trees to the south. "Let us do so, then."

Balal's gravelly, basso voice sounded again, to her back. "You do not have to come with me, human. This is not your fight."

Mitsu glanced back at Balal, having to crane her neck and lean back a little, since the huge Ogier stood almost twice her height. Her voice was patient as she explained; "I swore sacred oath upon the Crystal Throne to obey the Chami…"

"What is a _Chami?_ " Balal wondered.

"A monster… a very _annoying_ monster! He who you Treebrothers name 'Lightborn.'"

"Oh… _him_. An odd creature!"

" _Very_ odd. The Chami commanded that I accompany Feren back to the _stedding_ and then convey to his location any information concerning the Breaker weapon." Mitsu shrugged again. "Since such has been found, I must bring word of it to the Chami, but cannot do so while Stedding Dashai is surrounded by red-masked _Souvraniene_ and their followers. If I do not assist the Ogier in breaking the siege and destroying the enemy, I will not be able to obey my orders and my eyes shall be eternally lowered… and to a vile, monstrous Chami, of all things!" Mitsu considered a moment, then mused; "my honour might even require that I take my own life..?"

Mitsu neglected to add that during the terrible, five-day Battle of Semalaren, an Ogier Gardener of the Deathwatch Guard had saved her life, at the cost of his own. It was a debt to the Treebrothers that she had long wished to repay, and now she had been given the opportunity… for all that the Ogier of Seanchan, when compared with their surviving cousins in this Land of the Madmen, seemed very different. But they were still Ogier, and a life-debt was a life-debt.

Balal stared down at Mitsu for a long moment, then rumbled; "you humans are very strange."

"I am no ordinary human," Mitsu stated proudly, "I am a _Bloodknife!_ "

Balal shrugged his massive shoulders, muttering; "I am still not entirely sure what that _is_ …" before returning to his theme; "but to risk life and limb because of an oath? On account of mere _words?_ "

"My honour is everything to me," Mitsu replied simply, "it is all that I have left."

Balal blinked his huge eyes slowly, his pointed, tufted ears that projected to either side of his sung-wood helm drooping a little. "Then you have my sympathy… Bloodknife." He turned. "Come. Let us go and see what the enemy are doing."

What the enemy were doing consisted of the digging of an encircling network of trenches about the borders of the _stedding_ , the raising of tall watchtowers set at intervals, but primarily; the construction of a dozen massive, complicated-looking devices, a central arm supported by a triangular frame of wooden girders.

"What are those things?" Mitsu wondered, peering through the leaves of a rhododendron bush at the frenetic activity being conducted by a host of enslaved labourers. Numerous crudely-armed soldiers wearing rough leathern masks watched them closely whilst they worked.

Balal answered softly, though for an Ogier this meant a level of sound with which Mitsu was yet uncomfortable. "Catapults."

Mitsu blinked, recalling descriptions from ancient war-texts studied in her youth. "Oh. To hurl missiles a great distance? Yes, I see." In Seanchan, such siege engines had long ago been rendered obsolete by the introduction of _damane_ into battle, but Mitsu was aware from reports by agents of the _Hailene_ that mangonels and trebuchets were still utilised in the Westlands for reducing an enemy city's defensive walls… and it would seem that the catapult was not an unknown weapon in this Land of Madmen, either.

"They follow the same plan as has been employed in the destruction of previous _stedding_ ," Balal rumbled as quietly as he could, which was not particularly quiet, "their weaves of _saidin_ are of little use to them, since the aura of Stedding Dashai would counteract the flows, so the evil ones mean to project balls of burning straw and pitch into the canopy, setting the forest alight. When the conflagration forces the Ogier inhabitants to flee the safety of the _stedding_ , the enemy will be waiting for them… and the slaughter shall commence."

These grim prognostications were delivered levelly, in neutral tones, but Balal sounded truly angry when he added; "the wicked humans have felled many fine trees to make their ugly catapults and towers!" His scandalised voice had risen by the end of this sentence, and though the closest sentries were a good five-hundred yards away, Mitsu felt that it was high time to depart, before Balal began to shout insults like; 'tree-killer!' and 'bush-burner!' at the masked soldiers. She motioned to the Ogier warrior and they carefully crawled backwards from their vantage at the edge of the _stedding_ until they were hidden by sufficient vegetation for it to be safe to rise and proceed on foot.

"We must return to the Stump forthwith," Balal whispered loudly, "Elder Hahal and the others should be imminently informed of these preparations."

"I shall remain here and keep watch on the foe," Mitsu stated. She did not care for going into the centre of the _stedding_ and did her best to avoid the Ogier, but for the Guardians whom she had fought beside over the last few days. The way the Treebrothers looked at her with their large, cold eyes, tufted ears pressed flat to the sides of their heads… it should not have made a Bloodknife uncomfortable to receive the censure of Ogier, but somehow it did. The denizens of Stedding Dashai, some of whom were refugees from other, defiled _stedding_ , had little love for humans, which Mitsu supposed was only understandable, given the circumstances.

Despite the fact that when they had come here from the Dragon College, Feren had explained to his folk that the two humans accompanying him were innocent of any crimes against Ogier, a fair amount of prejudice had lingered, directed mainly at Mitsu. Tamei had been less unpopular, a source of interest to some of the Elders and other scholars of Stedding Dashai; Elder Hahal had named her 'Wolfsister' and many questions concerning her lupine abilities had been directed at the wild, golden-eyed maiden. But Tamei had found this attention uncomfortable, and until the arrival of the Laughing God's army, the two of them had been content to set up their camp outside of the _stedding_ , whilst waiting for Feren's research to yield results.

Mitsu frowned with concern. Tamei had been gone from her side for but three days, but it felt like an eternity. Was she safe, or would she return only to find the rest of them dead? Would she share their dark fate? Mitsu realised that Balal was staring at her curiously and shook her head, attempting to clear it of the sorts of fears that should be alien to a Bloodknife of the Seanchan Empire. It was difficult, though…

"You should come also," Balal objected, "in case I do not-"

A deep, harsh scream sounded through the trees, originating from further within the _stedding._ Mitsu and Balal exchanged a mute glance of surprise, then turned and ran in the direction of the anguished cry. His longer legs pumping hard, Balal swiftly drew ahead, almost disappearing amongst the trees to the fore, but he came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a large clearing as Mitsu caught up to him. They stared.

A score of the Laughing God's soldiers, clad in crude furs and plain leather masks, their bare chests and arms tattooed with darkly-inked designs, were clustered at the centre of the clearing. The humans did not notice that they were being watched, their attention held by a dying Ogier Guardian struggling at their feet. The tall Treebrother was transfixed through the wooden armour plates covering his torso by several cruel, flint-tipped spears gripped by the masked soldiers, but even with his life's blood gushing from his wide mouth, the Ogier was still attempting to rise and continue the fight, weakly raising the heavy sung-wood club clasped in his hand. Gore and brains besmirching the knotted head of the club and a half-dozen still corpses lying about the fallen Guardian told that he had not gone down easily. The spear-wielding killers surrounding him had to use all of their strength to hold the fallen Ogier down, leaning their weight upon the hafts, while the rest lingered behind, keeping a wary distance.

The mortally-wounded Ogier coughed-up a final gout of blood, then sank back upon the gore-soaked grass, his huge eyes glazing over and staring emptily up at the sky. He lay still. The score of masked soldiers raised a ragged cheer, shaking their primitive weapons in the air.

"The human filth have killed Dayali," Balal growled, "I shall kill _them._ "

Mitsu reached for the Heron-marked hilt projecting over her left shoulder, wondering if they should split up and take the enemy from two directions, but Balal was clearly in no mood for discussing tactics. With an angry bellow, the Leader of the Guardians of Stedding Dashai surged forward, massive axe raised. As she swept her blade from its scabbard, Mitsu watched Balal plough into the enemy, an unstoppable force of nature. She had beheld Gardeners of the Deathwatch Guard in battle before, and well-knew how implacable they could be in combat, how effective…

But Balal was differently deadly; wilder, more ferocious, roaring loudly as he killed. His axe swept out before him, reducing the throat of one surprised opponent to a red ruin before impacting against the skull of another with a sickening crunch. A third brigand darted in from the side, lunging with a flint-bladed knife, but Balal simply swept out his long, powerful arm and punched the attacker forcefully in the face with a massive fist, slamming the man's head back. From several paces away, Mitsu clearly heard the neck snap. The three slumped to the ground as one and Balal stood over the trio of corpses he had made in scant seconds, regarding the remaining followers of the Laughing God menacingly. They gaped at him in shock, hesitating.

"Who is next?" Balal rumbled grimly.

From somewhere, the masked killers found a vestige of their courage and leapt forward, shouting savage war-cries, brandishing spears, knives and clubs. Balal met them without taking a single step back from the fray, despite being heavily outnumbered, his axe rising and falling amidst welters of gore, ignoring the minor wounds he was taking, his ferocity greatly exceeding that of the humans. Then, Mitsu was there at his side, sword poised, shifting liquidly from form to form as the _Ko'di_ finally came to her; decapitating heads and amputating limbs, striking, slicing and stabbing, a veritable whirlwind of violent death.

It was over soon enough; Bloodknife and Ogier Guardian stood breathing heavily amidst the fallen bodies of the enemy, lying twisted and torn about them.

"They stood no chance against us," Mitsu observed, when she had reclaimed her powers of speech, "but attacked fiercely, even so…"

"It was not bravery," Balal responded contemptuously, "these vile human murderers simply fear their insane God more than they are afeared of _us._ " Balal ignored his bleeding cuts and began to wearily wipe the blood from his axe blade with a rag, whilst Mitsu crouched, examining the nearest corpses. "All we can do is _kill_ them," Balal further commented, "the wicked Warlord of the evil ones has the power to consume their shrivelled _souls_ , by all accounts." He considered, then mused; "if such debased creatures even _have_ souls."

Mitsu was only half-listening. The closest slain brigand lay flat on his back, a gaping wound in his chest from one of her sword-thrusts, though she barely recalled killing the man. The leathern mask had slipped to one side, uncovering part of a brutish face; dark, faded tattoos on the cheeks and brow, the bloody mouth gaping to reveal yellow, filed teeth… but it was that which adorned the dead man's earlobe that claimed Mitsu's particular interest. A tarnished, silver stud, fashioned in the shape of a hawk in flight. Again; the sigil of the High King. How had this lowly criminal come by it? Feeling profound distaste at touching the deceased defiler, Mitsu removed the hawkish ear-stud, tucking it into her belt before rising smoothly and regarding Balal.

The massive Ogier warrior was gazing upon the slain humans with gloomy satisfaction; then, his huge eyes moved to the large corpse of one of his Guardians. He sighed mournfully, the susurrating sound reminiscent of a strong breeze disturbing dead leaves. "Dayali was a fine Treesinger," Balal observed regretfully, "he shall be missed."

"You fight well, Balal," Mitsu complimented her comrade, "you would make for a skilled Gardener."

Balal turned his shaggy head and blinked down at Mitsu with distracted confusion. "But I _am_ a skilled gardener," he protested mildly, "have you not seen my rose bushes? I pointed them out to you after you had met with the Elders. They are perhaps the best in Stedding Dashai."

Mitsu shook her head. "No, Balal, you misunderstand… 'Gardener' is the name of honour accorded to the Ogier warriors of the Deathwatch Guard, who protect the lives of the Blood and the Empress, Might She Live Forever."

" _Nothing_ lives forever, not even the Great Trees," Balal commented absently, then his long, hairy brows drew down over staring, pale eyes. "You mean to say that in your faraway land, the Ogier involve themselves in human affairs, and actually serve this Empress of yours as soldiers?" He sounded as though he did not wish to believe it.

Mitsu nodded impatiently. "Yes, of course. When the first Emperor, Luthair Paendrag Mondwin, brought his armies to Seanchan, he found it much as this chaotic, undisciplined place. The Armies of Night reigned supreme, _Marath'damane_ witches and even accursed male-channelers ran amok, contesting with each other for power and oppressing the people… the Ogier kept to their _stedding_ where they were tolerably safe from the dread One Power, but approved of the Emperor restoring order to that unhappy land, and after discussing it at their Moot for several years, resolved to aid the Hawkwing's son in this endeavour. Which they then did, most effectively. That is why the Pact was agreed between our peoples and ever since, the Deathwatch Guard has always included a contingent of-"

"You have slain my men." The interjecting voice was cold and cruel, spoke the Vulgar with a harsh accent.

Mitsu and Balal whirled around, weapons raised. " _Souvraniene!_ " Balal shouted in warning.

A tall, gaunt man stood at the edge of the clearing, dark, glittering eyes watching them through the holes in his red, leather mask, emblazoned with an insane, laughing mouth. Thin, pale braids extended out from his skull, framing his macabre, false face. The male-channeler wore a loose, buckskin kilt, an obsidian-bladed knife tucked through the belt, and had a spotted animal skin thrown over bony shoulders, his skinny arms and slat-ribbed bare chest marked with arcane, crimson tattoos. He leant upon a long, ash-hafted lance with a barbed point of forged bronze, the weapon standing taller than he did. A circular, iron amulet hung about his thin neck, strung upon a heavy chain.

Casually, the _Souvraniene_ reached up with his free hand and raised the red mask, perching it atop his narrow skull. His face was thin and predatory, a puckered scar twisting his mouth up to one side, revealing a filed incisor and giving him a permanent sneer. His gaze swept over the numerous corpses in the clearing. "Yes, all quite definitely dead," he confirmed to himself, before returning his ruthless gaze to Mitsu and Balal. He grinned savagely, exposing more pointed teeth. "No matter. They were scum. Expendable and easily-replaceable scum. I shall recruit more…"

Balal and Mitsu exchanged a meaningful glance that held deadly intent, then started forward, approaching the _Souvraniene_ purposefully. "You and your foul, murdering beasts should not have trespassed within Stedding Dashai, Madman," Balal growled, "now you shall perish, as do all humans who come to this place uninvited."

The _Souvraniene_ did not seem overly-concerned by either this threat or their moving steadily towards him, but merely pointed a long-nailed finger at Mitsu. " _That_ human looks very much alive to me!" he commented.

"I _was_ invited," Mitsu explained, coldly.

"She is our guest," Balal added, " _you_ are not."

The _Souvraniene_ shrugged his narrow shoulders, uncaring. "I go where I please, Ogier fool. All of this Land, from Ocean to Ice, is the realm of the Laughing God… and I, Singer, am his loyal lieutenant!" He then threw back his head and in a surprisingly pleasant tenor, sang;

" _Oh, the Laughing God is mightier than any other Madman;_

 _He rules our dreams and often seems to have some secret Madplan!_ "

Singer fell silent, then giggled alarmingly, before stilling his features to a serious demeanour with unnerving rapidity. "I wrote that. What did you think? Be honest now, I shan't be offended…"

Mitsu's and Balal's steps faltered and they eyed each other uncertainly, before advancing threateningly once more. "Enough!" Balal snarled, "you merely delay your own death, crazed human…"

"Think you that I will just stand here and let you kill me, Tree-lover?" Singer enquired, with soft menace to his tones.

"You shall have no choice, and no chance against us, puny Madman!" Balal raised his great axe threateningly. "You stand within a _stedding_. Your channeling will avail you little in _this_ place."

"Oh? Will it not, now?" Singer smiled nastily and took his hand from the haft of the long lance. Instead of toppling over once bereft of support, the tall weapon remained upright… then rose into the air, hovering beside Singer. The lance began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Mitsu and Balal paused in consternation.

"As the God often tells us, there are ways and there are means," Singer commented, then touched the dark, iron amulet hung about his neck. "This is a Well- _ter'angreal_ ," he revealed, "it contains _saidin_ , enough to tear the two of you to shreds, which I shall greatly enjoy doing." Conversationally, he added; "my Master gifted this Well to me, as a sign of his favour. It is very old, and impossible for even Drummer to duplicate. I was on my way to the Stump to slaughter your Elders when I heard my men shouting, and returned… curiosity has ever motivated my actions…" By this; the spinning lance had become a circular blur beside Singer, the bronze head humming through the air with each revolution. "After you are dead, I believe that I shall set the _stedding_ ablaze. I _do_ love the aroma of burning trees in the morning…"

Desperately, Mitsu lunged forward, Balal right behind her, knowing that it was a doomed attempt, that the Madman was too far away to cut down before he could destroy her with the Power… but she had to _try._ Singer's dark eyes narrowed and the lance immediately ceased its spin, streaking toward them, point first. It howled through the air, a deadly missile projected upon a skein of _saidin_. Mitsu dropped and rolled, lightning swift, but still felt a flash of agony from a glancing blow as the bronze point slashed open her shoulder before flashing past. Ignoring the pain, Mitsu sprang to her feet, looking for her fallen sword, a hand clutched to the shallow wound from which blood flowed copiously.

Singer regarded Mitsu malevolently. "You move fast," he commented, then gestured in her direction. Mitsu leapt to one side as the ground beneath her feet exploded upwards, a gout of flame singing her loose trews. "Stand still, curse you!" Singer hissed, gesturing again. A further fiery detonation, but Mitsu was no longer there, avoiding destruction with a serpent's speed, but only just. She did not have time to find her blade, she would have to slay the Madman without it.

One of the many skills Mitsu had been taught in her Bloodknife training was the art of misdirection; how to attack an enemy armed with a bow, avoiding their arrows whilst moving steadily closer until within range to kill them. It involved both anticipating and confounding one's foe. Mitsu used misdirection now, with greater intent and facility than she ever had before, feinting in one direction before leaping, tumbling and diving out of the way of the _Souvraniene's_ steadily more powerful attacks, enraging him considerably in the process…

"Stop jumping around like a jackrabbit, you annoying harridan!" Singer shouted angrily, as Mitsu crouched several paces away, bruised and scorched but still in the fight, despite her shoulder wound. She gathered her waning strength, preparing to pounce upon her opponent and fatally end the unequal duel… but Singer had other ideas. Snarling furiously, he raised both hands and struck with all his might. Mitsu almost avoided the resulting blazing explosion… almost, but not quite. As the dust cleared, Mitsu lay on her face, stunned, a smouldering crater at her feet. Singer stepped sinuously forward to stand over her, smirking cruelly. "Any final words?"

Mitsu raised her head weakly. "Yes… your song was… _bad!_ " she slurred.

Singer frowned. "Bad?"

" _Very_... bad!"

Singer glared down at his prospective victim, incensed. "How dare you?!" he spat, "ignorant lowbrow peasant! What know _you_ of fine music?" He raised a hand, pointing at Mitsu, his glittering eyes narrowing with deadly purpose. Mitsu closed her own eyes, then, after a long moment when nothing happened, opened them again. Singer's bony brow was furrowed with concern as he fingered the round amulet that he wore. "Empty…" he muttered ruefully, then glanced at Mitsu, venturing a sickly smile, rendered grotesque by his scarred and twisted lip. "Well… this _is_ awkward!"

Mitsu forced herself to rise, despite feeling much as though she had been recently trampled by a herd of rampaging _S'redit_ , and stood swaying, her cold, tilted eyes pinning the _Souvraniene_ , a cat watching a mouse. Singer took a cautious step back, a hand fumbling for the obsidian knife at his belt. "You fight well, stranger," he observed, "there is always room for one of your skills in our ranks…"

Mitsu stumbled forward a step, flexing her fingers, blocking out the pain of her wounded shoulder, as well as from the rest of her bruised body. The Heron-mark blade that had once belonged to the High Lord Turak lay nearby, but Mitsu did not trouble to retrieve it… she would not need it. Singer took another retreating step, colliding with a tree. "The Laughing God will reward you well, if you but take service with him," he offered.

Mitsu shook her head. "I serve the Empress, Might She Live Forever, and none other," she mumbled, blinking rapidly to clear her blurred vision.

Singer frowned, perplexed. "Live forever? I thought that you people said; 'May She Never Die?'" he queried, as Mitsu moved a stalking step closer.

" _What_ people?" Mitsu demanded, "of whom do you speak, insane fool?"

Singer shrugged. "Why, the _Hawx_ , of course… those paranoid idiots hiding-out on their precious Spire-Island, the shipwrecked dregs of the armies of some ancient King or other… now what was his name? Arto Hawkwind..? Something like that, I do believe…" His questing fingers closed convulsively around the knife's hilt.

" _Artur Hawkwing?_ " Mitsu gasped.

"Yes, that's the one," Singer confirmed, "I've never been very good at remembering names…" then yanked the knife from his belt and lunged upwards, sweeping the obsidian blade toward Mitsu's belly for a disembowelling stroke.

With contemptuous ease, Mitsu slapped a hand down on Singer's wrist and wrenched, breaking several small bones. Singer screamed in pain as the knife fell from his grasp; Mitsu caught it neatly in her other hand and promptly slashed the keen edge across the throat of the _Souvraniene_. Singer ceased his cries of pain in favour of muted choking sounds, touching wondering fingers to the deep, narrow wound, from which blood began to seep before pouring down his tattooed chest. His dark eyes held Mitsu's spitefully for a brief moment, then glazed over… he dropped to his knees before slumping face-down in the grass. His legs kicked a little, then stilled.

Mitsu stepped neatly aside as Singer fell. Distantly, she regretted her automatic, lethal action, but solely because she might have questioned the _Souvraniene_ further – preferably under torture – concerning these Hawx and their possible connection to the armies of the High King… though doubtless, it would all have been lies. Men like Singer lied as easily as they breathed… and in any case, Mitsu's ingrained training had taken over; disarming an opponent and then despatching them with their own weapon was second nature to her, an almost involuntary response. She was a Bloodknife of the Empire, and she _killed_. It was what she did. It was what she _was_. Even so, Mitsu suspected that there was a secret here, something that had been kept from her… and naturally, that cursed Chami was lurking at the centre of the mystery!

It was only then, now that the threat of the dangerous _Souvraniene_ had been neutralised, that Mitsu remembered Balal. She turned, stared, and sighed regretfully. Mitsu had avoided the _saidin_ -propelled lance, if only narrowly, as her wounded shoulder attested. Balal had not. The long lance must have struck his chest with terrible force, piercing his sung-wood breastplate and flinging the Ogier across the clearing. Balal was slumped against a tree, pinned in place, the haft of the dread weapon impaling him, the bronze point sunk deep into the wood at his back. His great head hung forward and a deal of gore was pooled around his booted feet…

As Mitsu limped over to Balal, scooping up her Power-wrought sword on the way, she thought that he must assuredly be dead… but then, the huge Ogier warrior slowly raised his shaggy skull, large eyes focusing on her with difficulty.

"Save…" Balal managed to say, blood running from his stern mouth. Mitsu leaned closer, straining her ears. "Save… Stedding… Dashai…" Balal whispered, then his head sunk down and he spoke no more.

"I will," Mitsu promised, though Balal could no longer hear her speak. Her brow furrowed. For some reason, she could not get the image of Balal's prized roses out of her mind… who would tend them now? She would have to go to the Stump and report on recent events to the Elders, not just concerning the construction of the catapults but also the deaths of two more of their Guardians, including the highly respected Leader of these Ogier warriors. Enduring the disapproval that the Treebrothers held for humans was bad enough, but to have to be the bearer of such grim tidings on top of this… well, it must be done. Though the Ogier would perhaps kill the messenger..?

"Death is lighter than a feather; Duty heavier than a mountain," Mitsu muttered. She gazed sadly upon Balal for a moment, nailed to the tree-trunk by the cruel lance. She could not leave him like this… he deserved better. She sheathed her blade and gripped the haft sunk into Balal's chest with both hands, pulling with all her might, her shoulder wound protesting… but the lance would not budge.

"Let me do it."

Mitsu spun around, biting back a curse as her good hand blurred toward her sword-hilt, but it was only the Ogier youth, Feren. He stood just behind her, clad in heavy sung-wood armour, his club dangling limply from one hand. His huge, pale eyes held immense sorrow as he gazed upon his dead uncle. Mitsu frowned. It was extremely rare for her to be approached unawares, though the annoying Chami did it often, to irritate her. Feren's silent arrival made her chide herself for being careless… had he been an enemy, she would likely be dead by now. But then, she _was_ feeling somewhat faint after her one-sided battle with the _Souvraniene_ , her awareness was hardly at full strength. It was still inexcusable, though… for a Bloodknife could never be permitted excuses for failure, only the honour of a glorious death in service to the Empire.

Mitsu stepped unsteadily aside as Feren moved forward, gripping the haft of the lance in powerful hands and wrenching the long weapon free of both tree and corpse. He discarded the lance carelessly and caught his dead kin as Balal toppled forward, lowering him gently to the ground. Feren then knelt beside Balal, closing his staring eyes and carefully folding his uncle's hands over the mortal wound in his chest.

Mitsu crouched beside Feren, her head spinning, eyes fixed on Balal's face. He looked tolerably calm in death, at peace almost. The dead did not always look so… particularly when _she_ had a hand in their demise. "Balal fell bravely, protecting his _stedding_ ," Mitsu murmured, feeling that her words were sadly inadequate as soon as she spoke them. But in these situations, one had to say _something._

Feren glanced at Mitsu, a single large tear rolling from one eye. "Uncle Balal loved Stedding Dashai, he would gladly have died for it," he mumbled, then blinked. "Which is what he did, I suppose. I would that I had arrived sooner, that I could have prevented Balal's death, perhaps with my own life in stead of his… Uncle bade the Guardians stay close to the Stump, to protect the Elders, but I disobeyed, and…" Feren trailed-off, peering at Mitsu's shoulder. "You are wounded! Hold still…"

Mitsu tried to protest, but was feeling too weak to make more than a half-hearted objection to Feren's ministrations, so she knelt quietly whilst the Ogier youth tore a strip of cloth from his coat and carefully bound the gash in her shoulder. Mitsu had long experience of battlefield injuries and knew that while it had bled a fair amount, the wound was not that deep, the muscle and bone intact. She would heal in time, were she given time to heal. Likely, she would not be… the _stedding_ would fall soon, in the next day or so, there was no possible way to prevent this. The enemy might have received a setback today, though at great cost, for a warrior of Balal's calibre would be impossible to replace… but the forces of the Laughing God were strong and numbered a great many of the red-masked _Souvraniene_ in their horde. It would take a miracle to defeat them. And Mitsu, who barely believed in the omens that so many of her fellow Seanchan set such store in, certainly had no faith in the miraculous.

Feren knotted the bandage and gave it a cautious tug, then nodded, satisfied. As they rose, Mitsu gazed up at the tall Ogier youth and spoke with determination. "Feren, return to the Stump and tell Elder Hahal what has happened here…" Feren glanced down at Balal and his ears drooped sadly. "I shall remain at the perimeter," Mitsu continued, "and will await the cover of night. Then, I shall go out beyond the borders of the _stedding_ on a clandestine raid and attempt to set the siege weapons of the enemy afire. This will delay their assault, and should-"

"But they will kill you!" Feren objected.

Mitsu shrugged noncommittally, then winced as her injured shoulder protested the motion. "The enemy shall have to _see_ me first. I am a _Bloodknife_ , Feren! My order is without peer when it comes to moving unseen in darkness… they will never even know that I am there, until it is too late."

Feren frowned, his ears twitching obstinately. "I think that the _ample light_ provided by the _burning siege engines_ will enable them to see you quite adequately!" he pointed-out, somewhat sarcastically.

Mitsu frowned… sarcasm from an Ogier was certainly unexpected… "I care not!" she snapped, "I have been preparing for my doom since the day I spoke my Oath to the Empress, Might She Live Forever… I am a Bloodknife!"

"You _keep_ saying that…"

"So what if this _is_ a suicide mission?" Mitsu growled, in no mood for Feren's argumentative defeatism, " _that_ is what I have trained for and am fully prepared to face… I do not fear death!"

"Even if you succeed, they will only build _more_ catapults," Feren muttered stolidly. Mitsu scowled, opened her mouth to demand that he be silent- but then; they both heard the wild, mournful sounds, coming from just beyond the borders of the _stedding_ … the _howling_...

* * *

Tamei, the golden-eyed wolf-maid, knelt in a sunlit glade to the north of Stedding Dashai, cradling in her lap the head of the dark-furred wolf she called 'Night.' His full name was much longer. The glade was divided by a small stream and Tamei supposed that the black wolf had come here seeking a cooling drink of water before he died. Blinking back tears, she gently stroked her fingers through the coarse fur ruff about Night's neck… her hand came away bloody.

Ice approached soundlessly; the big, white-furred she-wolf nuzzled Night, but received no response. She whined softly. Tamei guessed that Night had not been dead long, his body was scarcely stiff and still retained some heat. She tenderly lowered Night's head to the grass and rose lithely, looking sadly down at her dead friend. He was wounded with stab and bite marks in a number of places, but it was the deep spear thrust in his side that had finally killed him. Though Night's muzzle and fangs were stained with gore, indicating that he had given as good as he got. This offered scant comfort. Ice sniffed at the long grass where Night had left a blood-trail leading back into the trees and made an interrogative, whuffing sound.

"Yes, Ice, we'll see if we can find the rest of the pack," Tamei agreed, fearing the worst. A last regretful glance at Night and she turned, running gracefully up the glade toward the tree-line, Ice loping at her side. She did not consider burying or burning the black wolf's corpse, but left it where it lay for the forest scavengers to find. It was not the custom of the people Tamei had been raised amongst, but it _was_ the wolf's way… and therefore, it was now also hers. A short distance from the glade, the trees opened out into a large clearing, a great oak looming at the centre.

Tamei stood, staring and breathing heavily. Both she and Ice had travelled far in the preceding days, were extremely weary… the Aes Sedai, Rashiel Tamor, had channeled strength back into them, but now that added stamina was almost gone, leaving them twice as tired as they might otherwise have been.

A battle had taken place in the clearing; a dozen dead wolves lay scattered about amongst a like number of the large and savage hounds used by the evil ones to hunt down their victims. There were several slain soldiers of the Laughing God also, Tamei was pleased to note, though a thousand fallen masked villains would not atone for their crime, nor assuage her anger at seeing her pack slaughtered. Tamei walked amongst the wolf corpses sorrowfully, recognising faithful companions of many a hunt, good friends who had served to ease the desolation and loneliness that she had suffered when her people cast her out, declaring her a Witch because of her eyes changing their colour and the wolves speaking to her… for these reasons, she had been banished from the village.

Chaser lay on his side; the big, grey wolf feathered with several arrows… Moonlight was slumped nearby, the slender, dappled she-wolf killed by a club-blow to the skull, from the looks of it… and cunning old Sky was locked in death with a large dog, his teeth sunk into his opponent's throat as the hound's were sunk into his. Tamei looked down at him sadly… Sky had been the oldest wolf in the pack but also, the smartest. Except for Ice, he had been her favourite companion. The she-wolf in question moved to stand beside Tamei, her cold, blue, lupine gaze fixed upon Sky. She growled softly. Tamei well-knew how Ice felt… she could feel the wrath building up inside herself, also. The evil ones would _pay_ for this, if it took the rest of her life to avenge the wolves she had called friends.

Then, Ice threw back her head and howled, long and loud, a mourning call. Tamei did likewise, the twin howls merging together into a wild lament for their slaughtered pack. Eventually, Tamei lowered her head, taking account, golden eyes scanning the large clearing swiftly, prowling around the oak to make sure that she had not missed anything. Not quite the _whole_ pack, by the looks of it… Blaze, Smoke and Tracker were not present amongst the dead. Tamei refused to allow herself the hope that these three young wolves were yet living, they could have fallen in the fighting elsewhere, but even so… it came as a small measure of comfort, that not _all_ of her companions had perished here.

Tamei angrily wiped away hot, salt tears, then glanced down at Ice, ruffling the fur at her friend's neck affectionately. " _We're_ still alive, Ice," she reassured the she-wolf, "and where there's life, there's hope." Abruptly, a hint of danger came to Tamei on the breeze; she sniffed the air warily, as did Ice.

"Hope is a highly overrated sentiment," a bleak voice drawled.

Tamei whirled around as Ice circled and crouched, growling warningly. A squat, broad-chested _Souvraniene_ was leaning against a willow tree at the edge of the clearing, tattooed, muscular arms folded, murky green eyes watching them through the holes in his red, smiling mask. Tamei jerked the dark, obsidian blade from the belt of her tunic and assumed a knife-fighting stance, fully prepared to defend both herself and Ice from this unlooked-for danger. The male-channeler made no immediate move to attack them, however, simply ran his gaze over Tamei's athletic form in a way that she certainly did not care for. Ice snarled threateningly, starting to stalk forward until Tamei placed a restraining hand on the she-wolf's head.

"So, _you're_ the Wolf-Witch?" the red-masked _Souvraniene_ commented, "I've heard tell of you…" He made a lewd, whistling sound behind his mask. "You certainly are a pretty little thing."

"Why don't you take off that foolish mask and show me what a big, ugly thing _you_ are!" Tamei spat.

The _Souvraniene_ chuckled softly, unfolding his arms and taking a measured step towards them. In addition to a ragged pair of britches, he had a faded wolf's pelt slung over his broad shoulders. The dark fur looked rather old and musty. The red-masked channeler produced a flint-bladed skinning-knife, waving it at them tauntingly. "I came back here because I was minded to get myself a new wolfskin," he confided to Tamei, before his cruel gaze shifted speculatively to Ice. "Pure white fur!" he exclaimed, "now _that_ will look uncommon fine on me!"

Ice growled, hackles raised, and Tamei shouted; "if you try to harm Ice, I shall cut out your evil heart and feed it to your filthy dogs!"

"You have spirit," the _Souvraniene_ remarked, "I like that… to a point. But you won't be cutting out anyone's heart this day, my sweet, I can assure you of that… and besides, the hounds are all dead, the wolves killed them…" he glanced disparagingly at the torn bodies of the hunting-dogs littering the clearing, then at the slain masked brigands that lay amongst them, "… _and_ their handlers… what a mess!" He laughed again, the mirth containing a trace of madness.

Tamei wondered whether it might be worth their while running for the trees, but knew that the _Souvraniene_ would only use his channeling abilities to strike them down before they could cover half that distance. With luck, she would be killed outright and not taken alive, since she clearly saw in this brute's lecherous eyes what he intended for her… death would be far preferable to _that._

Slowly, the red-masked _Souvraniene_ raised thick-fingered hands and though she could see nothing, Tamei knew that he was gathering his dark powers, preparing to do… something. Desperately, she reversed the obsidian knife in her hand, steeling herself to plunge the blade into her throat. It seemed the best and only way to avoid capture. But even as Tamei prepared to take her own life, she felt invisible bonds wrap securely about her wrist… the knife trembled violently in her grasp, but beyond this, she could not move it an inch. Further ropes of air whipped about her ankles, securing her in place.

"Now, now… none of that," the _Souvraniene_ chided, "suicide is the coward's way out, after all." He laughed cruelly, before confiding; "and besides, it's not _all_ bad… after Singer has delved inside your mind and rearranged a few things, you'll find being a slave of the Laughing God quite agreeable, I do assure you!"

" _Never!_ " Tamei screamed, struggling furiously to free herself, but to no avail. Beside her, Ice crouched, preparing to rush the _Souvraniene_ , though he yet stood several paces away and would assuredly kill the she-wolf with his channeling powers before she had covered a fraction of that distance.

"Never?" repeated the _Souvraniene_ , shaking his red-masked head slowly back and forth, "never is a long t- _urk!_ " He stared down at the foot of curved blade projecting from his sternum and touched a wondering finger to the blood-stained, Power-wrought metal. The sword abruptly withdrew, leaving a deep wound that pumped blood vigorously, and the Madman fell heavily onto his face in the grass, dead before he hit the ground.

Mitsu stood just behind, poised on the balls of her feet, bloody Heron-mark blade drawn back in a two-handed grip. Her dark, tilted eyes were glaring furiously, but her expression softened at the sight of Tamei, who was gaping at her in surprise.

"Mitsu!" Tamei cried delightedly, discovering that she could move once more and racing toward her lover, leaping enthusiastically into her arms. A little _too_ enthusiastically, in fact…

" _Oof!_ " Mitsu gasped, toppling backwards at the impact of the overly-energetic wolf-maid. Tamei landed atop Mitsu in the grass and began to kiss her exuberantly, whilst Ice dashed around them in circles, whuffing excitedly. "Slow down, _chalinda_ ," Mitsu protested when eventually able to get her breath back, "for all that it is most pleasant to see you, I am a little the worse for wear at the moment…"

Tamei obediently rolled off Mitsu, allowing her to sit up. The Seanchan assassin nodded at the dead _Souvraniene_. "That Madman makes the _second_ of his foul kind that I have slain in as many moments, though he went down easier than the first one, certainly. Well-done for distracting him, by the way."

Tamei smiled, wrapping her arms happily about Mitsu's shoulders, not quite managing to avoid the blood-stained bandage, so that the hug made Mitsu flinch. "Oops! Sorry, Mitsu, I didn't notice you were wounded… what happened? Did the red-mask do it?"

"He did."

"Well, I'm glad you killed him then, and even gladder you slew _that_ one there…" Tamei jerked her small chin at the dead _Souvraniene_ and sniffed disapprovingly, "…though I would that I had done it myself, he _deserved_ to die. He was a real _pig!_ "

"But of course," Mitsu agreed, rolling her eyes, "he was a _man_ , was he not?" They both sniggered, then Mitsu leaned in toward Tamei for a more sedate kiss.

"Help!" boomed a deep voice from nearby, "anyone! I require assistance!"

Tamei glanced into the trees, ash-blonde eyebrows raised in surprise. "That sounds like Feren," she mused.

"It _is_ Feren," Mitsu confirmed, "he was right behind me when we came to investigate the howling noises, but-"

" _Help!_ "

Tamei sighed and rose smoothly, extending a hand and helping Mitsu to her feet. "That foolish tree-creature is always bloody interrupting us!" Tamei grumbled. Mitsu retrieved her sword, knocked from her hand by Tamei in her enthusiasm, and they both wearily hastened toward the deep cries for aid, Ice trotting between them, helpfully providing a snow-furred back on which to lean.

Twenty paces into the trees, Tamei and Mitsu discovered Feren. The young Ogier was backed firmly against the wide trunk of a sycamore, held at bay by a trio of young wolves. One was a reddish colour, another light, smoky grey, the third dark brown. The wolves were snarling and baring their teeth at Feren… he poked ineffectually at them with his sung-wood club, but the weapon was promptly seized in powerful jaws by the red-shaded wolf and torn from his grasp. The brown wolf bit into the other end of the club and there ensued a brief tug-of-war, before the heavy wooden weapon was dropped and the wolves returned to menacing the Ogier.

Feren's ears drooped and he blinked rapidly, pressing further back against the tree. He noticed Mitsu and Tamei. "Call them off!" he implored the wolf-maid.

Tamei did not immediately comply with Feren's wish, so great was her joy at seeing the missing wolves of her pack yet living and seemingly unharmed. "Blaze! Tracker! Smoke!" she called, "it is so good to see you!"

The three young wolves turned and grinned at Tamei and Ice, their tongues lolling out, making whuffing sounds of greeting… then resumed their threatening behaviour toward Feren, who moaned, flinching away from their snapping fangs.

"The wolves don't even look hurt!" Tamei enthused, smiling up at Mitsu, "isn't it wonderful?"

Mitsu blinked. "Um..?"

"If they don't stop trying to bite me, I can assure you that they _will_ get hurt!" Feren warned, adding plaintively; "why am I being bullied and intimidated by your beasts? I have always been kind to animals, but in the case of these wicked wolves, shall certainly make an exception!"

Tamei glared at Feren, placing her hands on slim hips… she opened her mouth to protest this prejudicial attitude, but Mitsu intervened. "Perhaps you should send the wolves away, _chalinda?_ " she suggested, "they do not seem to like Feren…"

"Well, I don't particularly like _them_ either!" Feren shouted, exasperated.

Tamei sighed. "Stop trying to eat the Ogier," she scolded the trio of young wolves, "he probably doesn't taste good anyway… go find a safe den, I will join you later." Blaze, Tracker and Smoke made whining, obedient noises, gave Feren a last suspicious stare, then turned and trotted soundlessly into the woods. "Go with them, Ice," Tamei told her she-wolf companion, "try to keep them out of trouble." Ice whuffed in agreement, then obligingly loped into the trees on the trail of the younger wolves. Tamei watched them go.

Feren, after retrieving his club and shaking his head over the teeth-marks that now marred the fine-grained wood, did likewise, observing the wolves depart, though much less fondly. He muttered something in the convoluted Ogier Tongue that was doubtless far from complimentary. Then, Feren eyed Tamei in a decidedly unfriendly fashion. "Well met, Wolfsister, I do _not_ think!" he declared with heavy irony, before demanding; "where is the aid that you promised to bring to Stedding Dashai? I count only _you_ , Tamei… you and your mangy, needlessly-aggressive wolves!"

Tamei scowled darkly. "Thirteen of my friends, much of the pack, have _died_ defending your precious _stedding_ ," she cried angrily, "I don't see any of you tree-folk doing ought to protect yourselves from the evil ones!"

Feren's long brows drew down over huge, cold eyes and his tufted ears flattened against the sides of his skull. "Is that so?" he rumbled, dangerously calm.

Mitsu touched her young lover's arm. "Tamei, several Ogier Guardians have fallen to the Madmen since you went to fetch help, including Feren's uncle, Balal… he was recently slain, I was there, I witnessed his death."

Tamei's mouth fell open, golden eyes widening in shock; she then turned to the Ogier youth, touching his arm in gentle sympathy. "Feren, I am _so_ sorry, I did not know…"

Feren shrugged his massive shoulders, ears lifting… he blinked his large eyes, then a wide, rueful smile all but split his face in twain. "That is quite alright, Tamei. I also spoke in haste, as a human might… I am glad to see that you are yet safe, and I am truly regretful about your wolf companions, in addition. I am sure that you did your best, to find those who might help us, it is not your fault that-"

"But I _have_ come back with help for your people!" Tamei protested, "why, I brought the F-" Her mouth snapped shut and her golden eyes widened.

"What is it, _chalinda?_ " Mitsu enquired, concerned, "what is wrong?"

"The wolves… they are talking to me!"

"Can they _do_ that?" Feren wondered curiously, "speak inside the Wolfsister's head from afar?"

"Presumably," Mitsu drawled, then asked Tamei; "what are they saying?"

Tamei sounded distracted. "Hold on, I'm telling the others to shut-up, I just want Ice to speak…" She concentrated, gold eyes narrowing, blotting out the swirling imagery from the vision of the three younger wolves, who were less skilled at these things, undisciplined… their perceptions were harder to focus upon than that which Ice was seeing…

 _about a dozen men wearing red, laughing faces, running through the forest… moving rapidly in the direction of the clearing where they stood… hunting them..?_

Tamei gasped. "Oh no! Madmen are coming this way, and _fast!_ "

"How many?" Mitsu demanded, urgently.

"Too many for _us_ to handle!"

Feren moaned loudly, whilst Mitsu seized the wolfmaid's wrist, tugging insistently. "Come, Tamei, back to the _stedding…_ now!"

The three of them set off swiftly through the trees, soon reaching the glade where Night lay, running amidst the long grass, splashing through the stream… but as they reached the trees at the far end, Tamei's steps faltered and she lingered, staring back the way they had come.

"Why do you stop?" Mitsu gasped, looking rather winded.

Feren loitered at the edge of the forest beyond the glade, clenching and unclenching large fingers about the grip of his sung-wood club, eyes wide with alarm, which since he was an Ogier, meant very wide indeed.

"I…" Tamei hesitated, "…the wolves say…"

A harsh death-scream erupted from the woods that they had just traversed, followed by another, even louder.

"What was that?" Mitsu wondered, drawing her sword.

"Should we not be _going?_ " Feren mumbled, but was ignored.

Tamei continued, less haltingly; "Ice says that the red-masks aren't chasing _us_ … they're _being chased_ , by…"

"Whom?" Mitsu demanded. More fatal screams sounded from the trees.

Tamei grinned wildly. " _Her!_ The one the wolves name; 'She-Fox!'"

"She-Fox?" Feren muttered, doubtfully, "surely that should just be 'vixen?'"

"Who-?" Mitsu began to ask, but then five men burst from the trees at the opposite side of the glade, running hard. They wore red masks and rough furs, their chests and arms tattooed with ochre designs, and were apparently unarmed. Though these dread _Souvraniene_ were _always_ armed, possessing as they did the fearsome Power of _saidin_. There seemed nothing particularly fierce about this quintet of Madmen, however, their panicked movements and haste suggested the frantic terror of hunted beasts.

" _Watch_ ," Tamei urged, with predatory satisfaction, "this is going to be _good!_ "

The five _Souvraniene_ were but a dozen paces beyond the tree-line when something dressed in loose, dark garb blurred out of the forest after them. It seized the rearmost pair of red-masks to either side of their skulls and swept their heads together with shocking force; even from afar, Tamei could clearly hear the sickening crunch as their craniums fractured. The Madmen fell limply into the long grass and their black-clothed killer sprang nimbly over the corpses, darting after the rest of the running prey, sliding between two more of them.

One of these _Souvraniene_ turned desperately, making a futile gesture… a fireball sprang into being before him, shooting toward the unknown assailant, who avoided it with ease, rolling beneath the burning orb with inhuman speed and dexterity. The flaming sphere struck the Madman opposite; he screeched in agony as he was immolated, reduced to an ashen skeleton in seconds. The _Souvraniene_ who had cast the ineffectual fireball blanched and attempted to resume his futile flight, but the mysterious attacker slipped into his path and leapt high, spinning and lashing out with a bare foot – the vicious kick all-but took the Madman's head off.

The final fleeing _Souvraniene_ almost made it as far as the stream that bisected the glade before he was caught as surely and lethally as a chicken in the jaws of a fox. As the male-channeler approached the water, the stranger in the dark garments pounced on him from the long grass, clasping his head to either side and using the momentum of the jump to swing about the Madman full-circle, twisting his neck around with a fatal snap. The channeling victim had time to utter a brief, choked scream, abruptly silenced. The killer landed in a crouch on all fours while at the same moment, the dead _Souvraniene_ collapsed bonelessly to the ground beside her.

Tamei raised a hand in greeting and the deadly personage responded in kind, waving back with long-nailed fingers before brushing a lock of russet hair out of her pale and predatory eyes, which watched Mitsu and Feren unblinkingly. Then; she smiled slyly, sharp teeth flashing in her fine-boned, slightly vulpine face.

"Who is _that?_ " Mitsu demanded, surprised.

At the same time, Feren gasped; " _what_ is she?"

"Oh," Tamei replied unconcernedly, "that is actually the _help_ I fetched, to come and save Stedding Dashai…" she grinned wolfishly, "… _that_ is _Feir_."

* * *

 **Denouement :** _ **"I would be free…"**_

The Gholam slipped silently through the heart of the Ghost Forest, enhanced senses attuned for any hint of danger, though there was practically nothing within the Land of the Madmen of which it needed to be wary. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It moved as soundlessly as ever, not disturbing so much as a single dead leaf or dry twig beneath its bare feet… just as it had on the many occasions that it had been sent into the strongholds of the enemy, to take a life and subsequently drain its victim's blood. Good times… excepting that final mission, when the Gholam's intended target had been waiting for it, when the trap had been sprung and everything had changed.

The Gholam frowned, its cold and inhuman mind veering away from something that it detested thinking about. Though an image remained, unbidden, as it always did; the face of a very old male Aes Sedai, with a hairless skull and dark, almond eyes filled with dreadful knowledge, while betwixt twin tufts of white, twisted hair, a thin-lipped mouth smiled goadingly. The Gholam knew it would never be able to excise those arrogant, superior features from its memory, and that knowledge tormented it to the depths of its soulless, evil core.

The Gholam narrowed its blank, empty eyes as it scanned the surrounding forest… it had begun to recognise certain trees and other landmarks, its destination was close. It took another quiet step, but the fact that the footfalls treading behind were continuing to tramp carelessly and noisily through the undergrowth, completely negated its surreptitious movements. The Gholam turned, irritation evident upon an ordinary, unmemorable visage. " _Cease making so much sound!_ " it hissed in the Old Tongue, " _pick up your feet and set them down with more care!_ "

The young woman who had been shuffling wearily along in the rear, her dull brown eyes averted, looked up and gazed upon the Gholam with open terror. Her round face was dirty and obscured by untidy, dark locks, she wore a simple deerskin smock patterned with beadwork, her careless feet shod in leather sandals, and seemed altogether unremarkable… but for the fact that she was able to channel. The Gholam could detect this negligible ability in her with ease, it was the sole reason that the captive Witch was still alive. For now… The prisoner swallowed nervously, then hesitantly nodded. " _I shall try,_ " she whispered in the same ancient language, her words tinged with the local accent.

The Gholam stared coldly at the youthful Witch, ensuring that she was properly cowed, then proceeded on its way, giving the rope it held in one pale hand a forceful tug. The other end of the short length of twined hemp was bound about the Witch's wrists, held 'prisoned before her; at this impetus, she stumbled forward, following in the Gholam's noiseless footsteps, gamely attempting to cause less commotion as she walked… and failing miserably.

The Gholam scowled. Really, it blamed itself for this dissatisfactory situation. Had it not slain the Darkfriend _Da'shain_ male-channeler, then this tiresome errand should have been entirely unnecessary… but the red-veiled, Shadowrunning fool had made the profound mistake of attacking, and the Gholam's instinctive response to any perceived threat was invariably to kill first and feed later. Certainly, the _saidin_ -cursed Aielman's Tainted blood had held a savour that the Gholam relished, but even so, it regretted the deed. Having to locate and capture the Witch had wasted valuable time.

As for the young _Tuatha'an_ assassin… well, he had better have successfully accomplished his own task in that same period, or there would be trouble. The Gholam was in _no mood_ to excuse failure in its new-found confederates. Not that it exactly _had_ moods, as a human might understand them… but one could not live amongst people for more than a millennia without acquiring a few bad habits.

After advancing a further fifty paces through the tall trees, leading its prisoner along like a lamb to the slaughter – an obvious but appropriate analogy – the Gholam paused, its dark, soulless eyes narrowing suspiciously. "I know that you are there," it called out in its customary malevolent tones, using the Vulgar speech, "show yourselves!"

A brief moment passed, then three Friends of the Dark revealed their hidden presence by reluctantly emerging from the concealing depths of a thicket. The Gholam ran an assessing gaze over the trio of roughly-clad sentries – two armed with short horse-bows, the third with a large crossbow – then dismissed them from its concerns. The Darkfriends were all big, dangerous men, no strangers to violence and murder, but they had seen what the Gholam was capable of doing to an enemy who confronted it… and so they watched the Shadow-spawned killer wide-eyed; frightened mice in close company with a hungry lynx. The captive Witch risked a brief glance around herself, taking note of the picket of archers, but clearly had no idea who they were or what they were guarding. " _Where are we?_ " she wondered, hopelessly.

The Gholam ignored its prisoner for the time being, whilst one of the Shadowsworn bowmen turned, putting two grimy fingers to his lips and producing a piercing whistle. The Gholam scowled. What was wrong with an imitated bird-call? If there were further Hawx scouts lurking in the vicinity, then they had just been alerted to the enemy's position… why did the fool not just sound a Trolloc war-horn while he was about it? It fervently wished that it could kill the imbecile for his stupidity... but unfortunately, in its current condition, could not. This, essentially, was why it had allied itself with these Shadowsworn humans... for the time being, at least.

A flash of movement in the trees ahead, approaching swiftly, and a lanky, dark-complexioned Friend hurried into view. He wore a faded, striped uniform and had a long, straight sword strapped to his back. The Gholam vaguely recognised the gangly armsman as one of the _Tuatha'an_ assassin's lieutenants, but was uncertain… and did not care, in any case. Humans more or less all looked the same to it; walking bags of blood, mere pathetic cattle, the lot of them! The tall swordsman came to an abrupt halt a few paces away, regarding the Gholam nervously, though a small, ingratiating smile twitched his lips. "Ah, you're back… good…"

"Which one are you?" the Gholam enquired, with soft menace.

"Chuan, third-in-command… um..?" This Chuan was evidently unsure what to call the Shadowspawn he addressed.

" _Gholam_ ," said the Gholam.

Chuan blinked. "Oh? That is your name also? I thought it was your… um… _race?_ "

"It is _both_."

Chuan's dark eyes shifted to the bound Witch. "Who is she?" he wondered.

"I shall _ask_ the questions, not answer them!" the Gholam hissed, before demanding; "has the _Tuatha'an_ returned yet?"

Chuan nodded jerkily. "Aye, Mistress Gholam… the Killer Tinker… that is to say, _Ranim_ , he got back a brief while ago and awaits you at the camp."

"Good," the Gholam muttered, stepping sinuously forward, tugging the roped Witch along behind. As it pushed past Chuan, the Gholam made a further demand; "did this Ranim locate that which I sent him to find?"

Chuan shrugged bony shoulders as he waved for the sentries to conceal themselves once more, before trailing after the Gholam. "I know not, Mistress Gho-"

"Cease calling me that, you befuddled loon! Just say _Gholam_ without the 'Mistress!'"

"Sorry… um… Ranim did not tell me ought of his mission so I cannot say if he met with success…" Chuan hesitated, then reluctantly added; "I _do_ know that he and his men encountered some trouble on the way back from… from wherever it was you sent them. Not all of the lads returned."

"In the Land of the Madmen, danger is never far away," the Gholam commented, evincing little in the way of commiseration for these fatalities.

"In the land of the mad, the sane man is King!" Chuan quipped, unwisely attempting a rather weak jest.

The Gholam promptly stopped walking and turned, eyeing Chuan dangerously. "Are you attempting to be _amusing_ , human?"

Chuan swallowed nervously. "Um…"

The Gholam smiled nastily. "Should you have the misfortune to meet the King of _these_ lands, then you shall soon discover to your cost that he is the maddest one of all!" It thrust the rope-end into Chuan's hand. "Here, make yourself useful and take charge of the prisoner… I grow weary of leading this trembling heifer to market…" Chuan held the rope gingerly whilst the Gholam turned to the young Witch. " _Look at me_ ," it coldly commanded, shifting back to the Old Tongue. The Witch reluctantly raised her gaze, fear-filled brown eyes meeting soulless black. " _If you attempt to channel, I shall snap your spine like a straw_ ," the Gholam warned.

" _I won't!_ " the terrified Witch assured her captor.

"She can _channel?_ " Chuan croaked. It seemed he understood the Old Tongue.

"Not near to _me_ she cannot," the Gholam growled, "so stay close, _jester_." It resumed its progress, Chuan following-on with the captive, who he watched over his shoulder with exaggerated caution, as though afeared that she might sprout fangs and claws, or breathe fire. The Witch did none of these things; simply walked along, resigned to an uncertain fate. Her spirit was broken. The Gholam had broken it.

Up ahead; the trees opened out to reveal a large clearing thronged with Darkfriends; the scorched skeleton of a small ship languishing at one end, an ancient, grey column set at the other. The Witch stared at this crumbling artefact, which had a double row of arcane symbols carved about its circumference. " _The Everstone!_ " she gasped. The Gholam eyed her warningly; her mouth snapped shut, eyes swiftly lowered to her feet.

Untidy piles of blanket-rolls were stacked around a dozen scattered cook-fires, while a big tent had been erected beneath a towering tree at the clearing's centre. The same tree that the gold and silver chest had been buried beneath… the Gholam frowned. It did not know what had been inside that ornate box, the channeling human paramour of the Mistress had not revealed the contents within its hearing. Like its former Master, the Traitor Chaime Kufer who had caught and reconditioned the Shadow-spawned assassin long ago, the Gholam had never liked to not know things...

Chuan led the way toward the tent, awkwardly towing the prisoner along behind him. The numerous Shadowsworn brigands loitering about the clearing watched the Gholam warily as it stalked past. Some of these Friends of the Dark appeared to be wounded, the Gholam disinterestedly noted, brows and arms swathed in crude, gore-soaked bandages. The sweet scent of the blood hung tantalisingly in the air… the Gholam inhaled slowly, savouring it.

Within the large tent; the _Tuatha'an_ assassin, Ranim, now clad in more muted shades than the clownish colours he had worn when the Gholam first encountered him, knelt beside a log serving as a bench. A big, thickly-bearded Darkfriend sat upon it, a great brute of a man whom the Gholam vaguely recognised as Ranim's second, though it did not know his name or care to discover what he was called. The hulking Darkfriend had his shirt off, revealing a broad, overly-hairy chest and bulging biceps, one of which was marred by a deep gash, blood running freely from the wound. The Gholam inhaled again; the injured oaf was foul-smelling, true, but the aroma of his blood was certainly appetising. Neither of the Shadowsworn killers immediately noticed the Gholam, standing at the tied-back tent-flap, watching them…

Ranim was actively engaged in plying a curved needle and dark thread through the sliced skin in his comrade's arm, closing the wound up. The burly lieutenant had his eyes squeezed tightly shut and was making loud, groaning noises in response to this painful procedure.

"Quit whinging, Vaale!" Ranim chided, "I am nearly done."

"It flaming-well _hurts!_ " Vaale gritted between uneven, yellowing teeth.

Ranim scowled, viciously digging the needle in unnecessarily deep. Vaale yelped. "You are a big baby!" Ranim declared scornfully, tugging the thread taught, knotting it deftly and leaning in to bite off the end. "There. Finished."

" _Good!_ " Vaale growled, opening his bloodshot eyes and producing a silver flask from which he took a gulp. He lowered the container and noticed the Gholam, observing him. Or rather, its blank gaze was fixated by the blood running down his bare arm. "Your friend is back, Ranim," Vaale reported, eyeing the Gholam askance as it stepped silently into the tent. Ranim rose smoothly, cold, blue eyes fixed upon the Gholam, betraying none of the fear that the other Darkfriends evinced.

"Trouble?" the Gholam asked, softly.

Ranim shrugged. "You could say that…"

Chuan appeared behind the Gholam, ducking his head under the tent-flap. "Ranim, Big Vaale," he acknowledged, sketching a salute, then tugged on the rope he held in his other hand. The captive Witch staggered into the tent behind him and stood meekly, looking down at her bound wrists.

"Who is that?" Big Vaale wondered, before taking another drink from his flask, then added as an afterthought; "if you're going to put her to the question and then kill her, I don't mind volunteering for the duty..?"

"Your enthusiasm is duly noted," Ranim commented sardonically, pulling a rag from his belt and making to wipe the wet blood from Big Vaale's arm.

"Allow me," the Gholam offered, slipping over to them and taking the piece of cloth from Ranim. The Gholam glanced at it, then dropped the rag onto the canvas floor and leant swiftly toward Big Vaale… he flinched away but not in time to prevent the Shadowspawned assassin from extending a long tongue and licking the blood from his arm with a swift motion. Vaale gaped up at the Gholam as it straightened, fastidiously dabbing a spot of gore from its lips, an expression of momentary satisfaction colouring its blank features. "Ahh…" sighed the Gholam, "a full-bodied vintage…"

Ranim smiled one of his rare, icy smiles at Big Vaale. "There, Vaale," he observed, "despite your base appearance and lowly origins, it would seem that you have a hint of something more exclusive running through your veins…"

Big Vaale ventured a sickly simper in response to this awkward badinage, but his murky eyes darted nervously toward the Gholam and he inched further along the log to put more distance between himself and the dread creature. He then produced a grubby handkerchief and began to bind it about his freshly-stitched wound.

The Gholam ignored Big Vaale in favour of staring expectantly at Ranim. "Well? Did you find it?" the Shadowspawn coldly enquired.

Ranim nodded, raising his left hand. The Gholam was aware that usually, the _Tuatha'an_ assassin scorned all manner of rings, since they might tap against the hilt of a weapon and give him away to whichever victim he was stalking, but now he wore a platinum circlet about his index finger. "It was where you said it would be hid," Ranim confirmed, "but there were others already there, searching. We had to kill them before we could retrieve this device, but as we were leaving, many more came and attacked, pursuing us into the forest. We slew some and eluded the rest. I lost seven men."

"Nearly _eight_ ," Big Vaale grumbled.

"Burn my soul, Big Vaale, but I had no idea you could count so high!" Chuan joked, grinning in an addled fashion.

Big Vaale glared at the Shadowsworn Tairen swordsman, half-rising from the log, before sinking back down again. "My head is spinning," he complained, once more raising his flask to his thick lips.

"Then you had best stop guzzling that apple-brandy, Vaale," Ranim snapped, snatching the flask from his second-in-command, replacing the stopper and tossing it to Chuan, who dropped the rope-end and caught the container neatly, tucking it into his belt. Big Vaale frowned, then sighed mournfully, rubbing his head.

"This foe you encountered," the Gholam enquired, "did they have feathery designs painted on their faces, hawk-masks and the like?"

Ranim blinked. "No, not at all… they looked to be a large war party of the local savages, sporting tattooed features, with teeth filed into points. They wielded crude, flint-tipped spears mostly, with a few of those obsidian-bladed knives we have seen."

"Cannibals!" Big Vaale exclaimed dramatically, before adding; "I think they ate that short Domani cutpurse, Huiler!"

"Then I feel sorry for those poor hungry natives," Chuan remarked, "for knowing Huiler and his disgusting habits, I expect the little rat was rather _poisonous!_ " Big Vaale made a snorting sound, then winced, clutching his brow.

Ranim regarded his overly-talkative lieutenants flatly. They nervously noticed and took the hint, Chuan helping Big Vaale to his feet and then assisting him from the tent. Vaale snatched his flask back as they did so. For such a big, lumbering brute, he had surprisingly swift hands. Ranim watched them go, shaking his head slightly, then turned back to the Gholam. "Shall we?" he suggested.

The Gholam placed pale fingers on the Witch's shoulder, causing her to tremble, then nodded. "We shall."

A while later; the Gholam stood beside Ranim, eyeing the ancient column of the Portal Stone. The Witch, her wrists now unbound, knelt in front of them, glumly staring up at the crumbling artefact and its double-line of faded, carven symbols. Big Vaale, Chuan and the rest of the Darkfriends, their numbers noticeably depleted now, lingered at a safe distance, watching the proceedings with wary curiosity.

" _I do not see it,_ " the young Witch mumbled, in the Old Tongue.

"What did she say?" Ranim asked the Gholam, in the Vulgar.

"She does not see the symbol," the Gholam translated.

Ranim strode up to the stone, pointing at a particular carving; an inverted triangle with an upward-pointing arrow running through it. "That one _there_ ," he snapped at the Witch, glaring dangerously down at her. She nodded hesitantly. Ranim returned to the Gholam's side. "That is the sign for the Portal Stone that lays beside the Dead Sea," he confided, "amongst the ruins of M'Jinn, once a city of the Age of Legends."

"I well-recall the razing of M'Jinn," the Gholam commented nostalgically, "the heat-blooms from the plasma bombardments lit the night sky as far away as _Shayol Ghul_ … my Sisters and Brothers and I stood above the Valley of _Thakan'dar_ , watching until dawn, alongside our maker, the Chosen Aginor … it is one of my earliest memories." Ranim eyed the Gholam sidelong, raising an eyebrow. The Witch had turned her head, peering curiously up at the Gholam. It glared at her. " _Concentrate upon your task!_ "

" _Why?_ " the Witch moaned fatalistically, " _even if I aid you in... in whatever this is that you mean to do, you will only murder me when I am done, as you butchered the rest of my Coven!_ "

"Coven?" Ranim repeated, "that does not sound like Old Tongue..?"

"It is what the Witches of this Land group themselves into, in stead of Ajah," the Gholam explained, in bored tones.

"I am no Witch!" the Witch denied, revealing that she understood and spoke the Vulgar, albeit with a thick accent, "I am Aes Sedai!"

Ranim and the Gholam exchanged sceptical glances.

"If you are Aes Sedai, then where is the shawl of your ajah?" Ranim enquired.

" _And_ your serpent-ring?" the Gholam added.

"I need neither!" the Witch cried, placing a hand over her heart, "I am Aes Sedai in _here_ , that is all that matters!" Then, the momentary defiance deserted her and she hung her head. "You will kill me when I am of no further use to you," she whispered dolefully.

"I shall not," the Gholam promised, "assist us and you will not be harmed by myself in any way… I swear it upon the Divinity of the Great Lord of the Dark."

After a moment, the Witch slowly raised her gaze, a trace of hope in her dull eyes. "What must I do?" she asked, tremulously.

"Channel as much Spirit as you are able into both Stone and Ring, whilst maintaining the requisite symbol uppermost in your mind," the Gholam commanded.

Ranim held up his hand illustratively, extending the index finger upon which he yet wore the ancient ring- _ter'angreal_ that he had fetched at the Gholam's behest. "What _was_ that place, where you told me to seek this ring-device?" he wondered.

"The _Collam Aman_ ," the Gholam answered, in noncommittal tones.

"Dragon College!" the Witch moaned, "tis cursed! None return from there..."

" _I_ did," Ranim smugly pointed-out, neglecting to mention that seven of his men had not been quite so fortunate.

The Gholam eyed Ranim sidelong. "Incidentally, the _Collam_ is where the Dragonspawn and its vile kin were created," it revealed, pointedly.

Ranim raised reddish eyebrows, then narrowed his predatory eyes. "What _is_ the Dragonspawn?" he desired to know, "it is clearly no more human than _you_ , Gholam… what purpose does it serve? Whyever was it made?"

"Why do you _think?_ " the Gholam snarled, "set a Construct to kill a Construct! My kind were created to destroy Aes Sedai, whilst the duty of the Dragonspawn was to counter us, eliminate us, to guard against the Gholamin…" Its voice became reflective. "I recall the Dragonspawned creature, from my time inured within the _Collam Doon_ , up in the north… it was young then, had yet to achieve its full potential… it used to come and look at me sometimes, staring through the view-slit in my cell door with its strange, beast's eyes. We never spoke to one another… what was there to say? And later, I sensed it when the Dragonspawn slew one of my Brothers, sent to assassinate the accursed _Shadar Nor_... even from afar, I felt the death of another Gholam." It paused, before musing softly; "until then, I had not thought that we _could_ die…"

Ranim considered this, then suggested; "so… you would kill the Dragonspawn in revenge for your fallen kin?"

The Gholam shook its head curtly. "Vengeance is a human preoccupation, it holds no interest for a Gholam." It smiled cruelly. "No, I shall put an end to the Dragonspawn for one reason only; because its very existence _offends_ me!" Ranim blinked, surprised. The Witch was staring at the Gholam, wide-eyed… the Shadow-spawned assassin scowled at her darkly. " _Channel!_ "

For a time, whilst the Witch knelt before her captors with her eyes tightly closed, nothing seemed to be happening… then, slowly at first, but gradually intensifying, the Portal Stone began to glow. Simultaneously, the ring- _ter'angreal_ upon Ranim's finger started to shine. "It does not look near so bright as when we were sent here through it," Ranim commented, gesturing at the Stone.

"No, it would not," the Gholam concurred, before explaining; "this procedure which we now attempt is merely a matter of communication, as opposed to transportation…"

" _The strain_ …" the Witch moaned, her eyes snapping open, staring fixedly at the Portal Stone that loomed over her, " _I know not how much longer I can do this_..."

" _Weakling!_ " the Gholam snarled, " _maintain the flows or suffer the dire consequences of failure!_ "

"I believe that I hear something," Ranim muttered, holding the Call Ring close to his ear, "it sounds like… the beating of large wings?" His eyes widened; "it must be the Draghkar! The flying servants of my Mistress!"

"Quickly, speak into the Ring!" the Gholam urged.

Ranim held the ring- _ter'angreal_ up to his mouth. "Dread Mistress? Are you there?"

Silence, then a reedy voice quavered; "Ranim? Is that you, my poppet?"

"It is!" Ranim confirmed, "none other! My respectful greetings, Dread Lady."

"How in the Pit are you able to contact me through my Call Ring, dumpling?" The disembodied voice of Arachnae Kirikil sounded insubstantial, muffled, as though emerging from underwater or through a thin wall… but then, she _was_ very far away, both in space and time.

"Forgive me but I cannot explain all to you right now, Dread Mistress," Ranim hastily apologised, "we will likely not be able to maintain the link for much longer…" His voice became unaccustomedly excitable; "listen; I have found the Gholam!"

A pregnant pause, then; " _the Gholam?_ You don't say… but why is it in the Land of Madness?"

" _Madmen_ ," the Gholam corrected, leaning close to the Ring, before adding; "how I came to be here is too long a story for now."

Arachnae's voice spoke rapidly, fervent with the desire to gain knowledge; "tell me this at least, Gholam; were you wakened from your _ter'angreal-_ box by one Guaire Amalasan, the notorious False Dragon?"

The Gholam smiled faintly. "Yes, even he. Though Amalasan believed himself to be the _True_ Dragon. Idiot! Not the _worst_ Master I have served, certainly, though having to scribe his frequent Foretellings became tiresome… I am an assassin, not an amanuensis! But time is short, question me no further… and know this; I shall serve you well, Friend of the Dark. Should you but say the name of an enemy to me, then you may consider them already dead. But in return, I _want_ something."

A shorter pause, then the faint, grandmotherly voice carefully enquired; "and what would that be, now?"

The Gholam scowled, evincing great frustration. "I wish to be _me_ again!"

After a slight hesitation, the faraway voice responded; "I… I am not entirely sure what you mean by that, good Gholam… whatever can she mean, Ranim-dear?"

Ranim answered swiftly, his eyes on the shuddering form of the kneeling Witch who was clearly struggling with increasing difficulty to enable this conversation over great distances. "Dread Mistress; the Gholam relates that it was altered by that long-dead Aes Sedai who made the Dragonspawn, the one those ancient spy-reports you received from the Shadow Library termed 'Traitor.' Now, the Gholam cannot take a life except in defence of its safety or that of its Master or Mistress… it wants be changed back to the way it was before."

"I do," the Gholam confirmed.

"Very well," Arachnae agreed from the other side of the world, "I believe that this may be arranged… I shall send to you a certain Tool of the Shadow who might well be able to accomplish this feat. But Gholam..?"

"Yes, Friend?"

"I shall require more than mere service from yourself in recompense for restoring your true nature… you must grant to me a boon."

The Gholam bared its teeth savagely. "Would the Dragonspawn's severed _head_ comprise an appropriate gift?"

A muted cackling sound echoed from the Ring. "Why, that will do nicely!"

The Witch was spasming now, her hands raised to clutch at her head as she moaned in agony; the glowing light within the Portal Stone beginning to flicker and fluctuate, the shining halo about the Call Ring fading steadily.

"Mistress!" Ranim cried urgently, "may I also please have reinforcements? There has been attrition amongst my command perpetrated by the local savages, who attack strangers on sight… several untoward incidents, including a running-battle through the forest this very day… no few of the men have been eaten…"

" _Eaten?_ " Arachnae's voice was growing steadily less distinct.

"Yes indeed, cannibals abound here, not just Madmen, though some are _both!_ "

"Dear me! How uncivilised! Personally, I have always imagined that the taste of human flesh would vary greatly, depending upon the habits and health of the food in question. I attempted to question some Trollocs on this point once, but they are such dim-witted creatures that it was impossible to obtain a concise-"

"Forgive my unmannerly interruption, Mistress, but this connection may end at any moment, the Witch does not look well…"

"Of course, sweetling, I do apologise… how I ramble on! Tsk! Very well, my caution, I shall transport the rest of the Shadowsworn armsmen to your location also… and good-riddance to bad rubbish!" The ancient Friend of the Dark's voice had faded even more by this, but the Gholam possessed senses which far exceeded that of any human, and clearly heard her mutter under her breath; "though it shall certainly be a punishing chore, to send so many through the Portal, all on my own… I really am getting too bloody _old_ for this sort of thing!"

"My thanks, Dread Mistress," Ranim called, "we shan't let you down!"

"See that you don't, my honey-bun," whispered Arachnae's distant voice, "and _do_ attempt to join forces with Duadh and his people… he and Milly and that peculiar, red-veiled lunatic should have arrived at the Land of Madmen by n-"

Arachnae Kirikil's voice cut-off mid-sentence as the Witch gave a loud, choked gasp and then toppled onto her side, lying still. Simultaneously, both Portal Stone and Call Ring went dead, the glowing light disappearing instantaneously.

The Gholam watched unconcernedly as Ranim lowered the quiescent ring- _ter'angreal_ from his lips and took a step over to the Witch, turning her body with a crimson booted foot. The Gholam noted that whilst the _Tuatha'an_ youth had swapped his brightly-hued clothing for something more practical, he had stubbornly retained these garish boots, in presumed defiance at having his wardrobe derided.

The Witch; the young channeler who had proudly named herself 'Aes Sedai,' rolled onto her back, sightless eyes staring up at the sun. Just to be sure, Ranim dropped to one knee, holding two fingers to the side of the Witch's neck. After a moment, he glanced at the Gholam and shook his head.

"Channeling into a Portal Stone proved too much for her," the Gholam surmised, then shrugged, uncaring. "She was not very strong in the Power, after all."

Ranim shrugged. "I think me that you would only have killed her anyway, Gholam, when she was of no further use."

The Gholam wagged a nugatory finger. "No, that would have been _your_ task, _Tuatha'an_. I swore not to harm the Witch, and meant it. An oath taken upon the Great Lord is not lightly broken." The Gholam frowned. "Besides…" It closed its mouth, a ripple of something almost like embarrassment passing over its blank features.

"Besides _what?_ " Ranim prompted, as he drew his dark, _Thakan'dar_ -forged knife from its sheath.

The Gholam scowled. "My accursed reconditioning!" it spat, "I may not slay one who channels, unless they first attack me and threaten my person!" The Gholam nodded disparagingly at the dead Witch. "That craven girl cowered and hid whilst the rest of her Coven made their futile attempts to destroy me. I tore them apart."

"That must have been enjoyable," Ranim commented idly, dexterously flipping his assassin's blade into the air and catching it.

"Oh, but it _was_ ," the Gholam confirmed. It crouched beside the Witch's still corpse, eyeing Ranim expectantly. "Well, get on with it."

Ranim raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Waste not, want not," he muttered, then deftly slashed his _Thakan'dar_ dagger across the throat of the deceased Witch. Blood welled up out of the wound and the Gholam took a deep breath; soulless eyes glazing over a little. "My Mistress shall reward you well for your leal service," Ranim encouraged the fell, Shadow-wrought creature, "she has ne'er failed me in that regard."

The Gholam blinked slowly, before focusing on Ranim, soulless eyes narrowing. "She had _better_ be telling the truth," it hissed, "for should this Kirikil woman attempt to cheat me of my most ardent desire, I shall soon discover what _her_ blood tastes like!"

Ranim shrugged. "You would have to _find_ her first, Gholam," he pointed-out, "and that would only be the beginning of your difficulties… the Dread Mistress has not survived within this World of the Wheel for some eight centuries by making of herself an easy object for assassins."

The Gholam produced a contemptuous sniffing sound, evidently unimpressed by this assertion. "I would be free to _kill_ again!" it declared, practically impassioned, becoming almost animated for a moment, "slaying _whom_ I wish, _when_ I wish… once restored to my original self, I shall shed rivers of gore, an entire lake of blood, from which may be born the next age… the Age of Shadows!" And with that dark declaration, the Gholam leant forward, placed its open mouth over the cut throat of the Witch, and noisily began to feed.

* * *

 _respectfully dedicated to the Mothers, Daughters and Sisters of this World... as well as Wives and Girlfriends..._

 _(...may they never meet!)_

 _GB_


	13. Chapter 11 : The Nameless Ship

_**Gleeman Bob writes :** in the Upcoming ItLotM section of my Profile I promised (Gleeman's __Oath!)_ _to upload this latest chapter by the Feast of Lights... well, New Year's Day came & __went_ _& I was still (groan!) editing... but then, after literally spending several entire minutes conducting extensive research on the Dragonmount website, in which time I __read three - or possibly as many as four - informative posts, it was revealed that this_ _Third Age Festival_ _actually_ _equates to... Chinese New Year! which I believe is February 4th? so the Gleeman did NOT_ _miss his self-imposed deadline after all, but uploaded Chapter 11 : TNS a whole week early..._

 _yay!_

 _what else? oh yes, the astute reader may note an irrelevant-yet-pointless spelling alteration... when I originally assigned a weapon to Roth Blucha, Gleeman - for the purposes of sporadic & tentative self-defence - I thought he should be armed with something elegant, distinctive... & pretentious! hence... the poniard! but recently, a fellow Gleeman mentioned that this narrow Medieval dagger has at least a couple of alternate spellings... so now it is a poignard! I suppose I have a weakness for words with a silent G... like 'gnash' or 'gnaw,' both of which appear in the following chapter... but gnot gnat! (in Madman Land, there are gno gnats, gnor gneighing gnags gneither...) alright, I'll stop now... _

_...finally, the Leeman offers argantuan amounts of ratitude to those discerning Wheel of Timers who have elected to follow ItLotM, both previously & more recently. your loyalty shall not go unrewarded, for you are now all faithful Followers of the Laughing God - Praise Him! please enter your details in the online form to receive an official Aisle Souvraniene red-mask, bronze torc & anti-volcano spray._

 _& don't forget to..._

 _(POIGNARD!)_

 _...Walk in the Light!_

* * *

 **Prelude :** _ **Dance of Death**_

Rags the Court Fool, revered and feared in other localities as 'The Laughing God,' he who had once been Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman and subsequently Royal Bard to the Dragon King, Davian, closed the double-doors quietly behind him, in marked contrast to the unceremonious manner in which he had earlier kicked them open. He turned, prior to making his way back to the private quarters he occasionally occupied. The night was young; there was much to do, far to go. Rags took a few swift steps down the wide corridor, lined with marble busts set upon pedestals, abbreviated statuary depicting the scowling faces of a succession of High Princesses of the Hawkwing's Blood, all long-dead… but then, the Court Fool came to an abrupt halt, small silver bells sewn in profusion to his multicoloured clown's motley jingling once, before falling silent.

Rag's pale blue eyes narrowed with dawning suspicion as he noted that the half-dozen Hawk Guards who had previously stood sentry at the end of the long hallway were no longer there. These guards had earlier passed him through without challenge, since the High Princess Chantel Paendrag Tavor had left standing-orders that her Fool was to be permitted access to her chambers at all times… excepting bath-times, naturally. Where were they now? Why was the entryway to the Royal residences left unprotected by elite, hawk-masked soldiers?

Rags strongly suspected that he knew the answer to this conundrum, and his conjecture was confirmed when a tall Nobleman draped in a dark-green, pleated robe, stalked silently into view at the end of the hall. He held a short, sheathed blade before him; left hand curled about the tooled-leather scabbard, the right gripping an exquisitely carved ivory hilt… ready to draw and strike at a moment's notice. Cold, dark eyes drilled into those of Rags, merciless and menacing, though no threats yet issued from that stern mouth, set in a grimace of distaste.

 _so… finally making his move, is he?_ Rags thought to himself, _well, it certainly took the miserable traitor long enough to summon up the courage!_

Rags smiled winningly and bowed low with a flourish, setting his bells briefly chiming. "Have we met before? Why, 'tis my good Lord Kor!" he exclaimed, in his shrill voice.

Kor scowled darkly, then began to pace down the corridor with a Blademaster's deadly grace, approaching the Court Fool with grim intent. Rags likewise capered forward to meet the Nobleman, fluttering the fingers of one hand before his lips to make an amusing sound… whilst surreptitiously touching the belt buckle hidden beneath his garish coat with the other. The green-tinged copper in which the design of the Eternal Serpent was worked had corroded over the years, doubtless as a result of the Dark One's Taint, but the ancient Well- _ter'angreal_ still functioned perfectly… and he was going to _need_ it, by the looks of things.

Rags paused before Kor, striking a dramatic pose. The Nobleman also halted, looming over the diminutive Court Fool, gazing down at him with open derision.

"When last I passed this way, there were some _guards_ loitering hereabouts, methinks," Rags commented.

"I dismissed them." Lord Kor's response was every bit as frigid as his dark stare.

"And whyever would you do that, good my Lord?" Rags enquired.

Kor sneered. "I'll not be questioned by an insolent, lack-witted Fool!" he snarled, but then smiled malevolently. "Though _less_ lacking in wits than he pretends, I suspect…"

Rags grinned. "My thanks for the compliment, Lord Kor… the first such kindness that I have ever received from you!"

"And also the last." Kor's eyes narrowed. "Recent events in the Castle, perpetrated in my absence, lead me to believe that there lurks a traitor amongst us, an enemy within…"

Rags shrugged. "Forgiveness, my Lord, but I am but a simplistic simpleton and simply know nought about th-" His words abruptly ceased as the razor-tip of the Power-wrought short-sword touched his throat, drawing a red bead from punctured skin with but the lightest pressure. Rags swallowed nervously, the motion drawing more blood, which trickled down his neck and into his colourful collar. He had known that Lord Kor was fast, of course, but did not actually recall seeing the ivory-hilted blade leave its sheath… clearly, the Nobleman had been practicing with his purloined _Atha'an Miere_ sword.

"I think me that you were behind the escape of the Aes Sedai Witches, the deaths of my Hawk Guards," Kor softly accused. "Well? Do you have anything to say on that subject, Rags… or whatever your _true_ name is?"

Rags smirked, then declaimed;

" _Sea Folk steel is deathly sharp_

 _I fear you'll slice me like a carp!"_

Kor smiled nastily, baring his teeth, then hissed;

" _Or make you eat your silly harp!"_

Rags blinked. Well… _that_ had been unexpected… not much of a jest, certainly, but the closest he had ever heard Lord Kor come to the expression of humour! "Well said, my Lord!" Rags enthused, "though in actuality I play the _lute_ , and _not_ the instrument to which you refer… I never cared overmuch for harps, too many strings, they take forever to tune…" Kor frowned, opened his mouth impatiently, but Rags was not yet done with his words of empty encouragement; "why, I had no idea that you possessed a gift for extempore rhyme, sir! Until now, I always imagined that your talents were solely confined to deceit and murder!"

"Then it would seem that there are at least _some_ secrets within the Castle which you have not yet divined," Kor coldly observed, "for all that you would appear to know much else that clandestinely transpires here, in detail that even a Courtier, much less a lowly Fool, should be unacquainted with."

"The High Princess, May She Ne'er Die, oft confides in me!" Rags declared by way of explanation, though without overexerting his larynx, since the sword-point remained pressed to his throat.

Kor snorted dismissively. "The foolish girl knows only that which I choose to _tell_ her, which is passing little…"

"Though I would wager that the good Lady Severina tells her even _less!_ " Rags muttered sardonically.

Kor's lip curled with contempt. "You have an answer for _everything_ , don't you, Fool? Truly, you are insolence and irreverence personified; insulting your betters, satirising that which should be beyond reproach…" his tones shifted from derogatory to scandalised; "…even making of the Blessed Hawkwing a foolish and disreputable puppet, to entertain the High Princess, May She Soon Die!"

Rags smiled patiently. "Twas a _mannequin_ , in actual fact."

"The squad of sentries told me 'puppet' before I sent them away."

"Not so, my Lord, a mannequin requires _strings_ in order to be worked, not merely a hand inserted within… the guards were in error." Rag's eyes narrowed. "So… you would slay your rightful ruler, and yet call _me_ traitor?"

Lord Kor shrugged slightly, though the blade pressed to Rag's throat did not waver by so much as an inch. "I am of Artur Paendrag Tanreall's descent also, Fool… it is my right to assume power over the destiny of the Hawx. Our people have been misruled by women for long enough, until finally a vapid maiden without a thought in her empty head beyond which gown to wear or how to dress her hair ascended to the Hawk-Throne, there being no other suitable candidate left alive!"

"You just rhymed again, my Lord! _Wear_ … _hair_ … it would seem that you have a true facility for it!"

Kor studiously ignored this observation as the obvious attempt to change the subject that it was, declaring grimly; "time for a _man_ to rule. A High Prince to lead us to greatness, to finally conquer this vile Land of Madmen, bringing order to chaos!"

" _You_ would be this hypothetical Prince?" Rags whispered wonderingly, before grinning mockingly. "Why stop there? Why not a King, a _High_ King, even?"

Lord Kor bared his teeth again, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "Oh, I am tolerably ambitious, Fool… but not _that_ ambitious." His tone became deadly serious. "Now… before you die, be so good as to tell me what befell my uncle. I have often wondered about his fate…"

"Your _uncle_ , Lord Kor? Which one?"

The point of the short-sword sunk a little deeper into Rag's flesh, an abbreviated rivulet of blood running down from the wound. "I speak of Lord Coratano, of course! Coratano Paendrag Nihiel, of the Blood!"

Rags raised his eyebrows. "Ah, _him!_ The same Lord Coratano who so mysteriously disappeared, long years ago?"

Kor scowled. "Play not your foolish games with me! My mother told me of her brother, Coratano, that he was oft ensconced with _you_ , Rags, and ever sought your counsel. And then, one night, he vanished from the Castle. I suspect that you know _where_. Tell me, Fool, or you shall be slowly fed to the sharks, one greasy piece at a time!"

"Greasy… piecey..? No, not quite…" Rags grinned triumphantly; "but there _are_ no sharks, my Lord, the lionfishes ate 'em all!"

"Then you shall provide a protracted meal for _the Lionfish_ in stead!"

Rags sighed. "Oh, very well. In truth, I know not what became of poor Lord Coratano, though have done my best to find out, if with little success. I can only speculate that the Gholam took him to some distant spot, killed him and drank all of his blood, as was its wont."

Lord Kor glared down at Rags in angry bemusement. "The… _gowlem?_ What is this, Fool? Another of your ridiculous inventions?"

Rags almost shook his head, before recalling the needle-tipped sword at his throat. "Not at all. Why, 'tis merely the right name of that which you all called 'The Deathless One.'"

Kor's confused expression cleared. "Oh… _that_ fell creature. Were it not that certain of the senior Courtiers recall its time amongst us and related tales to me of its dark deeds, I would have thought it a myth, only." His dark brows drew down. "Yes, I recall now, it absconded at the same time as my uncle. But why would the… the…"

"Gholam."

"…gholam… the Deathless One… slay Lord Coratano? For what purpose?"

Rags smiled goadingly. "Why, because the Gholamin were made to destroy channelers of the One Power, and the unfortunate, doomed Coratano Paendrag Nihiel… well, he could _channel_." His smile widened. "As can I… only more so. Much more. In truth, young Coratano was my Apprentice, after a fashion… but I; _the Master_."

Kor's eyes widened. " _Souvraniene!_ " he hissed, then scowled murderously. "I might have known! Ever did you have a wicked way about you, Rags! Well, your dark powers shall avail you little here, Madman, 'pon the Isle of the Spire!"

"Will they not, now?" Rags murmured, stroking his serpentine belt-buckle, a pale-eyed gaze boring into Lord Kor's murderous visage.

"I have heard enough. Your final moment has come, Fool!"

"No it hasn't!" Rags demurred, as he drew upon the stored _saidin_ , the molten flame of the One Power flowing into him from his Well- _ter'angreal_.

Kor's sword-arm tensed for a mortal thrust, but it never came. He gaped in confusion. "I cannot move!" he gasped.

Rags took a step back from the wavering tip of the blade that had threatened him. He shrugged. "Well, you can manipulate your _mouth_ at least," the Court Fool pointed-out, touching an exploratory finger to his throat. When he took the digit away, it was wet with blood. Rags sucked the finger clean with a thoughtful air, then frowned at the Nobleman, shaking his head disapprovingly. Kor, wrapped from shoulders to knees in bonds of Air, watched with wild eyes. Rags wagged the damp finger at him. "Ignorant little scamps should not play games with sharp objects!" he chided, "else someone might get hurt!"

Lord Kor did not seem to have heard, staring at Rags in shock. "How… how can you cast your unnatural weaves _here?_ " he demanded, in choked, disbelieving tones.

"With recourse to _this_ …" Rags tugged up his garish, tinkling coat, tapped the ornate belt-buckle with his fingernails. "I would explain further, but simply do not have the time. There is much that I must attend to this night… you have delayed me overlong as it is, my Lord." Rags grinned insolently. "Betimes, my trade has ever been entertainment, not _education!_ Transmitting erudition to the dull-witted has ne'er formed any duty of mine!"

"You shall pay dearly for that insult when I am free again!" Kor snarled.

Rags mimed a fearful reaction to this threat, raising a hand to his mouth and widening his eyes, before letting his arm fall to his side. He sneered. "Optimistic sort, aren't you?" Rags muttered, before his eyes narrowed, and he began to channel in earnest.

Binding the overconfident Nobleman with weaves of Air had required little enough of the _saidin_ stored in the Well, but the more potent and complex channeling required by Compulsion would drain a good deal more. Rags concentrated, using every ounce of his considerable skill, honed to a fine art through long years of experience and application. Lord Kor, for all his faults, possessed a powerful will and fought his adversary every inch of the way… but inexorable as a tidal-wave, unstoppable as a mountain avalanche, Rags steadily overcame his victim's struggles. Kor's desperate attempts to retain control over his mind, his ability to think and act for himself, to resist the imposed intent of another… all were ultimately in vain.

Finally, it was done; Lord Kor stood loose-limbed and slack-jawed before Rags, his usually predatory eyes glazed and unfocused. The Power-wrought _Atha'an Miere_ blade with which he had threatened the Court Fool dangled limply from one hand. Rags waved a quizzical hand before Kor's face, provoking no reaction. "Can you hear me, Blood of the Hawkwing?" he enquired, softly and somewhat satirically.

"Yes…" Lord Kor mumbled, after a slight hesitation, "I hear you… Rags."

"That is not my _real_ name," Rags confided, "you surmised correctly in that instance, at least." He glanced idly down the statue-lined hallway, which had remained deserted throughout the confrontation and the ensuing weaving of Compulsion. "Those guards that you dismissed… will they be coming back anytime soon?"

Kor shook his head jerkily. "They will not. I bade them return to the barracks."

Rags sneered again. "Didn't need your turncoat hawk-masks to aid and abet you in assassinating the Princess, eh?"

A pained look passed briefly over Kor's features before the blankness resumed. "I had no intent to kill Chantel Paendrag Tavor," he droned dully, "at least, not this night… not until after the wedding…"

Rags blinked, then awareness dawned and his eyes widened with realisation. "I see! So… you were on your way to _propose marriage_ to your cousin, the High Princess, May She Never Die?!"

"Yes."

"To plight your troth to a fair maiden, albeit one under duress to accept your hand?!"

"Yes."

"How romantic! You dog!"

Since neither of these observations had been phrased as a question, Lord Kor did not respond to this badinage, but merely stood silent, awaiting further queries… and instructions. Rags did not disappoint in either regard, but spoke rapidly whilst Kor silently listened, his defenceless mind currently an open vessel to be drained or filled as required. The treacherous Nobleman's self-determination was entirely gone, perhaps never to return… the schemes and wishes of the Laughing God were now his sole concern. But then, this was as it should be. It was, after all, _Compulsion_ …

Later, now alone, Rags quietly eased open the heavy oaken door of his quarters, down on one of the lesser-used servant's floors of the Castle of the Hawx… but only after checking that the wardings and traps he had left in place to protect his private chamber and its contents were undisturbed. They were. This did not surprise him. The serving-staff of the Castle were, without exception, unduly nervous of the Court Fool. Due to his bizarre manner and behaviour, doubtless, which was of little consequence to Rags… he had been unnerving people for much of his long life. In addition, the servants were wary of Rags, knowing as they did that he held the favour of their High Princess and enjoyed considerable influence with the tempestuous, adolescent Noblewoman of the Hawkwing's Blood, who held all of their lives firmly in her dainty hands.

Rags grinned, as he thought of young Chantel. In many ways, she was the daughter he had never sired. Despite having long-since accepted it, Rags had been surprised at the first realisation that the High Princess was become the sole person within the World of the Wheel whose fate was of interest and concern to him. Thus; his intervention in the matter of Lord Kor. Rags had had his eye on the traitorous Nobleman for some time, waiting for him to make his opening move. Well, for every gambit upon the game-board of life, there was a counterstroke… and now, Kor had effectively been neutralised with regard to his plotting, his scheme to usurp the Hawk-Throne for himself.

Rags would have taken steps to thwart the ambition of the disloyal Lord Kor much sooner… but Compulsion was something of a blunt tool, he had always considered. Better far to manipulate an enemy via more subtle methodology, unless there was no other choice. Had Rags Compulsed Kor previously, the Noble's personality might surely have altered to the extent where other Courtiers noticed, and remarked upon the change. As they assuredly would now… after having his mind delved into with potent weaves of Spirit, Lord Kor would likely never be quite the same again. Well, there was no help for it… though perhaps it would have been better to just kill the wretch? But that would only have raised further suspicion and paranoia within the Castle. Besides, Rags needed Kor. For the time being, at least…

Closing the door silently behind him, Rags locked the solid portal securely via the usual means of key and bolts, as well as with more esoteric methods, requiring further channeling. After changing his clown's motley for a nondescript drab suit of clothes, a dark coat, trews and matching boots, Rags stood before his small, wood-framed bed and took a deep breath. Preparing himself to become someone else.

Then, Rags stooped and reached beneath the bed-frame, dragging out a long, low chest, constructed from some exotic, amber-hued wood which presumably grew in a faraway place… even _he_ was not sure quite where. A macabre bas-relief decorated the lid, depicting grinning, prancing skeletons cavorting in a celebratory line across the polished surface… each fleshless figure held a musical instrument, no two alike. Rags eyed the bony, dancing cadavers with their lutes and harps, pipes, drums and other tuneful devices… then smiled grimly, recalling the Madman who had so painstakingly carved this disturbing scene. Coratano Paendrag Nihiel, Nobleman of the Blood and _Souvraniene_ , who had disappeared in the night long ago, leaving the Castle of his kin and journeying south with the Gholam… never to return.

" _Far Mordero Hama_ ," Rags muttered, then unlocked the chest with his mind and flipped open the lid with a booted foot. A folded and faded Gleeman's cloak lay within, forming part of the contents as well as the lining of the shallow compartment. Resting upon the patch-bestrewn cloth lay three objects; a dark, jagged blade etched with spidery script, a carven golden hand, the extended index-finger pointing, and an ancient, bronze mask, fashioned in the likeness of a smiling fox's features. Working swiftly, Rags sheathed the black knife at his belt, tucked the solid gold _sa'angreal_ into a deep coat pocket and raised the Mask- _ter'angreal_ to his face, settling the strap around the back of his skull. Pale blue eyes stared through the holes in the beaten bronze.

Rags sighed with pleasure. "That feels better," he commented, though there were none present to hear. He then bent to seize his venerable cloak, sewn with its multitude of brightly-hued, fluttering patches, sweeping the tattered garment about his shoulders and settling it into place. "But _that_ feels best of all!" Rags added, then laughed softly. No matter what else he had become, the depths he had sunk to and the heights to which he had arisen, he would always be, in his heart-of-hearts… a Gleeman. "A _Master_ Gleeman!" he corrected himself, and with that affirmation, Rags ceased to be Rags for the time being, if not forever, and instead became Jeb.

Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman… but Jeb for short. _Jeb_ was what he invariably thought of himself as, when he was not being somebody else… it was also what his mother and siblings had always called him, long, long ago, in the small log cabin in northern Basharande where he had been born. His brow furrowed as he attempted to recall… had his father addressed him as 'Jeb' also? He was unsure, could barely remember anything about his early childhood. In any case, Master Simanon senior, a woodcutter by profession, had vanished in the deep forest when Jeb was yet very young. A border-patrol found him three days later… what was left of him, at least, which was not much. Trollocs did not tend to leave a great deal of their victims uneaten, after all. Whilst a Friend of the Dark, and more-so afterwards, Jeb had never favoured these bestial, Shadow-spawned monsters, had oft treated them unduly harshly. He had hoped that his dear old dad might approve of the sentiment…

Shaking his head in a futile attempt to banish the last remnants of an irrelevant past, Jeb turned away from the bed, approaching a large bookcase stood against the opposite wall. As he moved, he unconsciously flourished his cloak, making the patches flutter, despite being bereft of an audience. Old habits died hard, when they died at all. Various large, crumbling books filled the dusty shelves of the case, an assortment of cracked leather bindings betwixt which brittle, yellowing pages were loosely held. These forgotten tomes had been brought hither with the original survivors of the disastrous invasion of Shara, the remnants of the High King's lost Eastern Army who had founded this ill-fated colony.

Jeb had read but few of these histories – he was not much of a reader, never had been – since the antique works were primarily present as camouflage, to provide a reason for the bookcase to be there at all. The massy, dark stonework to either side of these stuffed shelves was much older than the brick partition walls bounding the rest of the chamber; smooth, shaped blocks forming part of the Castle's original foundations, near nine-hundred years old.

Squinting with concentration, Jeb used the last of the _saidin_ stored in his Well to deactivate a particularly nasty trap of Spirit and Fire woven about the bookcase, then reached up to one of the higher shelves, his hand slipping behind a large volume, the gilt lettering set into its warped spine barely legible. This was one of the few books that Jeb had glanced through in an idle moment, the third and final part of a personal military memoir scribed by a Borderlands Lord-General who had lived in the latter days of the Trolloc Wars, long before even Jeb's birth. The writing style had been entertaining enough, the descriptions of desperate battles and scurrilous intrigues tolerably compelling… but the long-dead Nobleman's habit of referring to himself in the third-person had eventually got on Jeb's nerves – he had no patience for persistent illeism! – so he discarded the account halfway through. Besides, in Jeb's estimation, the printed word upon a page could never compare with the vivid, living experience of a story actually being _told_.

Jeb's seeking fingers found the hidden catch behind the ancient autobiography, set at the rear of the shelf, and depressed it. A deep clicking sound resulted, as did the bookcase's slight movement away from the wall to one side. Jeb grasped a recessed handle and pulled; swivelling smoothly on cunningly-crafted concealed hinges, the heavy case swung outwards, revealing a shadowy aperture in the wall behind, a narrow tunnel bored through the dense rock of the Castle's foundations… or possibly, constructed there purposefully when the great fortress was originally raised?

Jeb was uncertain… all he really knew was that the Castle of the Hawx was riddled with such hidden passages; and he was cognisant of them all, had used these tunnels often over the years. No-one else amongst the Courtiers, soldiery or servants residing here seemed remotely familiar with these secret paths, though Jeb suspected that the formidable Lady Severina, Chatelaine of the Castle, might be aware of the existence of at least some of them. That woman was every bit as dangerous as Lord Kor, if not more so… had it not been for her unswerving devotion to the High Princess, Jeb might have felt the need to do something about _her_ also. Nothing too drastic, though… he quite liked Severina – despite her possessing a tongue that could cut glass! – for all that she clearly detested _him_.

Jeb began to duck into the concealed passageway… but then paused abruptly, slapping himself on the forehead chidingly at the realisation that, in his preoccupation, he had almost overlooked something important. _Extremely_ important. In the corner of the small chamber, a fifteen-stringed lute had been left, leaning against the wall. Jeb paced over, picked up the antiquitous instrument, running a hand lovingly over the polished redwood. It was not the best example of lute-kind, had oft needed repair to the frets over the years and went out of tune a little too readily for his liking… but he would not have exchanged it for all the silk in Shara! "I'll be forgetting my bloody _head_ next," Jeb muttered, securing his prized lute against his back by its leather sling.

Jeb entered the hidden tunnel, swinging the bookcase shut behind him, hearing the latch click into place. He started down the enclosed passage, his light footsteps echoing in the narrow confines. Naturally, it was pitch-black within… there was a scant trace of _saidin_ left in the Well- _ter'angreal_ but Jeb did not trouble to summon illumination, nor to utilise more mundane methods of lighting his way, such as a lantern or burning torch. He had no need to. The ancient bronze fox-mask that Jeb wore had several properties… one of which was to confer upon the wearer the ability to see clearly in even the deepest darkness. A lesser function compared with its others, certainly, but useful even so.

The tunnel continued, sloping slightly downwards, before arriving at a circular chamber from which several more passages radiated out in differing directions. Jeb did not hesitate, but unerringly chose one of these narrow routes, though it seemed no different from any of the others, proceeding onwards in a northerly direction. Before long, a hint of sodium in the musty, subterranean air became evident, followed in short order by the distant boom of surf upon rocks. Jeb grinned, and softly sang;

" _Oh let us harvest seashells by the salty, sandy shore..._

 _and venture back this night my love, to gather many more!_ "

The muffled, metallic quality that the mask gave to Jeb's voice was not to his liking, however, so he declined to sing further verses of the ancient, romantic ballad. It had been a popular refrain in his distant youth, he vaguely recalled, though the subject-matter did not really concern the collecting of shells, as such… this activity had been more a euphemism for night-time carnal trysts upon the beach!

Moonlight flickered up ahead and after a dozen more steps, Jeb raised the Mask- _ter'angreal_ , perching it atop his head like some outlandish hat, blinking in the silvery glow shimmering upon the smooth rock walls to either side. It was easily enough light to see by as Jeb made his way to the end of the tunnel, where he paused, taking in the view. Beyond the wide mouth of the shallow cave into which the passage opened out, Jeb beheld the vastness of the Great Southern Ocean, illuminated by a bright, full moon overhead. An endless succession of rolling waves extended outwards, stretching away to the hyperborean north, unto the very top of the World.

Jeb was well aware that on the other side of this deep expanse lay the land of his birth, for all that he would never see it again, not in this life… of that he was convinced. He barely remembered anything of the Westlands, in any case… it had all been so long ago, so far away. But it would have been sweet indeed to go out on a crisp spring morning, saddle a mettlesome steed and, with the sharp wind in his hair carrying the heady scent of wildflowers, to ride the Borderland steppes one final time, before he died…

Well, it was not to be. Shaking his head slightly, Jeb exited the cave, set into the side of a gently sloping cliff-face, and began to make his sure-footed way down a narrow, winding path, little more than a goat-track; a hidden descent which could not be easily detected from beneath. At the base of the cliff, Jeb's booted feet sank into damp sand… and seemingly, were not the first to recently do so.

Jeb frowned down at the double set of prints that led past his position and disappeared around the headland to the east. Since this was the same route that he needed to take, he proceeded to follow the tracks. Besides, he was curious. As Jeb approached the rocky promontory, a pair of Hawk Guards marched into view, returning from whence they had come, clearly patrolling the beach. Jeb scowled. The northernmost point of the Isle was but rarely watched, since any threat would more usually come from the mainland to the south… he had never encountered soldiers on this beach before. The brace of guards saw Jeb at the same time, dark eyes behind steel visors narrowing as they drew their blades and swiftly moved forward to intercept him.

"Halt!" shouted one of the guards.

"Who goes there?" added the other.

Jeb simpered. "It is but me, strawberry-blonde Gladwys, a lowly-yet-comely milkmaid, out a-looking for my lost cow!" he quavered, in falsetto tones.

The Hawk Guards paused, lowered their swords, exchanged a flat look.

"It's just Rags," growled the guard on the left, "talking nonsense, as usual."

"What do you here, Fool?" demanded the guard on the right, "and why are you wearing that strange-looking cloak?"

"What happened to your little silver bells, then?"

"And what's that odd thing stuck on top of your head?"

While the duo of Hawk Guards questioned him, Jeb continued to approach them at a steady pace. When he was close enough, he stopped, gazing calmly up at the two soldiers. "All in good time," Jeb stated softly, before adopting a quizzical expression. "But first, might I ask… what brings you brave lads all the way out here? Funny place for a patrol, is it not? Protecting the Isle of the Spire from an imminent invasion of crabs and lobsters, are we?!"

The Hawk Guards sheathed their blades whilst answering in desultory fashion;

"The Aes Sedai Witches escaped from that cove back there…"

"Tis the spot where we found the dead hag, killed with the Power, they say…"

"Lord Kor gave orders that the area was to be watched, just in case…"

"What _is_ that on your head, Rags? A hat? It looks like it has a _snout!_ "

"Oh, it does…" Jeb reached up and tugged the Mask- _ter'angreal_ back down over his face, regarding the two Hawk Guards calmly through the eye-holes in the eldritch, fox-featured device. When he spoke again, his muted voice emerged from the air-holes piercing the beaten bronze, devoid of intonation. "Well, this _is_ awkward… I am truly apologetic, boys, but you're both in the wrong place at the wrong time. I can't have any eyes that saw me leave left open, nor tongues wagging about my movements neither. You understand?"

"Not particularly," one of the guards muttered, squinting up at the full moon. "People don't tend to comprehend the babbling of lunatics, do they?"

"You look like a bloody _fox_ , Rags!" the other guard declared, "that's it… a red-coloured fox from the far north, the old Empire, not like the sandy-hued ones they have down here… I saw a picture of it in a book one time! Is this some new game, for the amusement of the Court?"

Jeb shook his head, the smiling vulpine mask moving mutely from side to side. "No. It is not. The games are all done… as are you two, I am afraid."

The Hawk Guards stared at Jeb, exchanged an uncertain glance… then burst out laughing, leaning against each other and shaking their hawk-helmed heads back and forth. "Good one, Rags!" the guard on the right managed to splutter, while the guard on the left only laughed louder.

Jeb did not feel like indulging in mirth himself, but smiled a melancholy smile behind the fox-mask whilst his hand moved purposefully to the hilt of his dark, jagged blade. In an instant, it was done – the keen, eldritch metal swept from the sheath and hummed through the air in a deadly arc. The pair of Hawk Guards clutched at their necks, laughter immediately shifting to choked gasps, the wheezing of their life's breath escaping sliced-open windpipes. As one, the soldiers clawed impotently at the deep wounds in their throats, blood gushing copiously from between the clenched fingers of their gauntlets… they dropped to their knees and thence fell forward, face-down. One twitched a little; the other did not. Both lay still, puddles of gore spreading about each man's head, slowly soaking into the sand.

Jeb flicked the blood from his blade before returning it to its sheath. "Sorry about that," he muttered, as he stepped over the corpses and continued on his way. Well, at least it had been over quickly for them… there were worse ways to die. _Much_ worse. Beyond the headland, Jeb came in sight of a larger cave than that which he had earlier exited. He had been here before of course, most recently on the night that he freed the Aes Sedai from their cells… and then took them prisoner himself, sending the Sisters and the Sharawoman down to Larcheen, under the watch of his best men. There were many more boot-prints scattered in the sand about this place, but no sign of any further Hawk Guards.

Feeling anticipation and trepidation combined, Jeb moved closer to the cave… and then, in the interval between one step and the next, he felt it. The Power that turned the Great Wheel. The encompassing influence of the Age of Legends Spire which kept this force at bay, no longer influenced him, did not extend so far as this northernmost point of the Isle of the Hawx.

Jeb shivered convulsively as he opened himself to the True Source. This was not just the drawing of the male-half of the One Power from his Well- _ter'angreal_ , that was a mere cup of spring water… this, a gushing torrent. Though a cataract of energy which could never satiate him, but only increase his raging thirst for more. It drew Jeb in with its Siren's call, it _sang_ to him. Sweet, sickening _saidin_ blazed within him and he fought for control with every fibre of his being. Though aided by the potency of the Mask- _ter'angreal_ he wore, counteracting much of the ill-effects of the Taint, the battle to not give in to the madness nor lose himself utterly within the Power's turmoil until only a mindless shell was left, was far from easy and not soon won. Though won it eventually was. For the time being…

Jeb took several deep, shuddering breaths, his heart pounding like a drum… then pulled the immensely powerful _sa'angreal_ from his coat pocket and raised it, pointing the extended golden finger seawards. He channeled.

This particular weave was extremely complex and required a deal of _saidin_ , much more than his Well retained after being drained by the Compulsion he had woven on Lord Kor… which was why Jeb had come here, to the one place on the Isle of the Spire where such potent channeling was possible.

A silvered line appeared in the air before Jeb, slightly higher than himself, rotating to form a gateway, beyond which a stretch of shore leading out to the Great Southern Ocean was evident. Jeb smiled coldly. What he was about to do was certainly inadvisable, for all that he had done it several times in the past. Davian, his former Master, had warned him that walking in the World of Dreams as a living presence would have a cumulative adverse effect on him if he did it too often. The notorious Dragon King had taught Jeb the complicated weave personally though, and had employed it on various occasions himself.

Jeb's smile widened as he recalled Davian's words of warning; ' _when one ventures into Tel'aran'rhiod physically, rather than psychically or spiritually, then on each occasion, a little more humanity – the essence of that which makes someone a person – is irrevocably lost. Ultimately, the process may leave you an empty, soulless husk, little better than one who has been forcibly Turned to the Shadow_.'

Jeb shook his head, recollecting Davian's clipped, precise cadences, the arrogant and grudging manner in which he had disseminated crumbs of knowledge to a select few amongst his adherents. There had been little enough left of the Dragon King that was human by the end of his life… perhaps as a result of visiting the Dream World in the flesh too much? Davian had utilised this forbidden weave to open such a portal to _Tel'aran'rhiod_ often in the early days, most usually in order to assassinate his more troublesome adversaries and rivals; Nobles who opposed his hegemony, enemy Generals, even Aes Sedai… not every one of his foes had fallen on the field of battle, there were no few who had seemingly died in their sleep.

Though of course, the Dragon King had never exactly been a paragon of humanity in the first place, to Jeb's mind… certainly not a particularly humane person, at least, for all that Davian always had his own conception of honour and a stark moral code from which he would not stray. He had led by example, exhibiting an implacable courage, showing loyalty to his followers, the People of the Dragon… a faithfulness that had not been reciprocated by certain traitorous individuals.

Jeb sighed. Davian had been his friend as much as his Liege-Lord, in a way, though neither of these ruthless men were exactly the type to really require friendship from others. Jeb's brow furrowed as he hesitated at the threshold of the gateway into _Tel'aran'rhiod_ … _had_ the Dragon King been adversely affected by his frequent use of this weave, his walking abroad within the Dream World in body as well as soul? More to the point, had Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman, likewise been altered in some way by his flesh-and-blood visits to the World of Dreams? Was he the same man now that he had been back then, during his time as King Davian's Court Bard? Before that, even, when he had stood tolerably high within the upper echelons of those sworn to the Shadow?

Jeb shrugged, dismissing the concern. Somehow, he rather doubted that entering _Tel'aran'rhiod_ physically for one more time would cost him his soul… since he had presumably long-since _lost_ that particular commodity, at Shayol Ghul, when he spoke his Oaths to the Great Lord of the Dark.

"The Dark One!" Jeb corrected himself, adding; "and who needs a soul anyway? I possess something far _better_ … for I yet have my _genius!_ " And with that, Jeb stepped through the portal, passing through an icy skein in the passage from one realm of existence to another. It was not unlike entering a Waygate… something that Jeb had absolutely _no_ intent of ever doing again. Taking risks was one thing… but walking the lost roads of the Ogier, with that nightmarish zephyr _thing_ lurking in the dark, whatever it had been… well, that was more like _suicide_.

On the other side, in _Tel'aran'rhiod_ , lay a mirror reality of the world that Jeb had just left, exactly the same… and yet, not. Different somehow, in an indefinable way. The same beach, a night sky lit by the silvery full moon, an identical endless Ocean stretching out to the distant horizon… but even without knowledge of how he had come to be here, Jeb would have instantaneously recognised his environment as the Dream World. And of course, actions were possible here that could not be accomplished in the World of the Wheel… which was the very reason that Jeb had come to this place. He had various locations to travel to, and at speed. It was vital that he be physically present, not just pulling the strings from a distance, for the furtherance and success of his plans.

Jeb spared a final look over his shoulder, glancing through the open gateway at the Isle of the Spire… he did not think that he would be coming back. This place had provided him with a useful refuge for many years, and he would miss the High Princess who, though privy to some of his schemes, and even cognisant of his birth-name, had never really known all there was to know about the Laughing God. Well, dear Chantel would have to find herself a new Court Fool… perhaps Lord Kor might consent to don the clown's motley, were it altered to fit his taller frame? To wear the jingling silver bells?! After what Jeb had done to Kor this night, the treacherous Nobleman might be good for little else!

Feeling slight regret, Jeb caused the gateway weaves to unravel, closing the portal upon the True World, then turned back to the Dreaming Ocean. He whistled loudly, a single sharp note. For a long moment, nothing happened; then, out amongst the waves, something moved that was not rolling water. A dark shape, coming closer. Jeb smiled in anticipation, watching as the form resolved itself into that of a big, black stallion, trotting insouciantly over the surf until it reached the beach, where it stamped a foreleg proudly upon the sand and whinnied in greeting.

" _Shai'tan!_ " Jeb called happily, approaching the large horse and patting it affectionately on the nose. It was not really Shai'tan of course, his prized stallion had perished in the accursed Ways, uncounted years ago… but in a way, it _was_. The horse may have been summoned by Jeb's memory and imagination on the first occasion that it had occurred to him to do so, but yet seemed to contain an essence of his long-lost steed, even so… it certainly _behaved_ as Shai'tan had. Jeb fed the faithful beast a sugar-lump – also imaginary – but the night-black horse did not seem to mind, and ate the sweet offering greedily, snorting warm breath onto Jeb's hand as it did so.

Jeb was aware that the wolves oft came to _Tel'aran'rhiod_ in their dreams, and also after they died in the real world… so perhaps horses did too? Possibly, this really _was_ the shade of Shai'tan? It would be nice to think so… Deftly, Jeb swung astride the tall stallion, requiring neither saddle nor bridle here in the Dream World, anymore than he would have back in the Land of the Madmen. Where there _were_ no horses, unfortunately… Jeb had so far not been able to find out why. Perhaps there had never been any of these noble creatures on this distant southern continent, or if there had, then presumably none survived the Breaking of the World.

Shai'tan raised its head alertly. Jeb leaned forward to pat the thickly-muscled neck of his steed. It had been long since he had returned to Larcheen… but there was a detour to make first. Stedding Dashai, last refuge of his Ogier enemy. Jeb had been unable to contact any of his subordinates with the punitive force for the last couple of nights, not even their leader, Singer, who possessed a rudimentary Talent for Dream-talking… clearly, something was wrong. It would bear further investigation, so a cautious visit to the siege-lines was in order.

"To the _stedding!_ " Jeb shouted. Shai'tan sprang forward, the terrain blurring around them as the horse turned south about the shoreline of the Isle of the Spire, galloping with unnatural speed. The Age of Legends Spire flashed past and then, a single great leap carried them across the strait to the mainland. Soon, tall trunks were sweeping by to either side as they sped through the Ghost Forest, taking an unerring path toward Stedding Dashai. Jeb crouched low on Shai'tan's back, gripping the horse's dark mane tightly, teeth bared in a grin of pure pleasure. "Run like the wind, boy!" he urged. His steed did not need to be told twice… indeed, the powerful stallion appeared to be exceeding its rider's wishes, for as the dawning sun began to rise in the east, Shai'tan seemed to be outdistancing the Four Winds themselves.

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven * The Nameless Ship**

" _Queen o' Foxes; sleeping sound,_

 _King o' Cats; he peers around,_

 _then from the floor;_ _Tom hears a snore –_

' _twould seem the Vixen's gone to ground!"_

' _ **Ballad of the Red Queen' [extract]**_

 **composed & performed by; **

**Jebedah Chul Simanon, Master Gleeman**

* * *

 **Act One :** _ **Visions**_

" _Women!_ "

The exasperated exclamation of Roth Blucha – skilled musician, indifferent poet and henpecked husband – abruptly broke the silence lurking beneath the strange and foreign trees. Roth came to an instant halt, once finely-tooled but now scuffed and shabby boots rustling amongst the fallen leaves scattered beneath his feet. The young Gleeman glanced around himself furtively and cautiously licked his lips. The nimble fingers which clutched his precious harp tightened a little upon the gilt frame.

"I _do_ hope no-one heard that," Roth muttered to himself, softly. _Extremely_ softly. By 'no-one' Roth did, of course, mean the savage and cannibalistic natives of this vile land… or even worse, a Madman. He glanced over a colourfully-patched shoulder, distantly glimpsing the sparkle of sunlight upon endless azure waves through the canopy of trees to his back. These selfsame trunks loomed all around, comprising what was apparently called 'the Ghost Forest.' A good enough name, Roth considered, he might perhaps compose a sad song about it, a melancholic air… or possibly invent a fearful tale in which some intrepid fellow ventured into the notorious woods in search of his lost love, and… and..? And was never seen again?

Roth swallowed nervously. _That_ seemed a little too close to home… best not to think about it. Or further contemplate dismal dirges and spooky stories. Roth shook his head angrily, unruly locks of auburn hair whisking about his neck. In his ire he had wandered further into the forest than he had realised, or intended. He really ought to get back to the ship before he encountered something horrid… or more to the point, before _it_ encountered _him_. Yes, a strategic withdrawal to their new-won vessel – which yet lacked a name, though he had provided plenty of suggestions – where relative safety awaited him… give or take the wrath of its Captain, his intemperate and violently-inclined wife!

Reflectively, Roth raised the hand that was not clutching the harp, touching a long finger to his aesthetically-proportioned face. Encountering the thin scar that marred the smooth skin over his cheek-bone, Roth winced slightly. Not in pain; the negligible wound was now several days old and no longer hurt – though it _had_ pained him a deal in the aftermath of the duel wherein his termagant opponent laid open his cheek with her blade, when salt tears of agony had intermingled with the blood that ran freely down to his chin. Roth shuddered at the recollection. The pugnacious and stunted Aielman Chassin had sneered in response to his manly weeping and sarcastically enquired whether he required a scented handkerchief to dab at his eyes with? And the oafish Murandian Warder Dagnon had _no right_ to cruelly name him a big cry-baby! Just because that pair of thuggish shoulder-thumpers entirely lacked the soulful-yet-sensitive temperament of a true artist! Clearly, they were jealous. Yes, that was what it must be… pure envy! It was painfully obvious.

But the _scar_ … the scar was the problem. In the course of their association, from that first fortuitous encounter to their betrothal and thence to wedded bliss, Roth and his Dark Lady, Ysmet, had argued often and fought frequently, the disagreements occasioned by a variety of circumstances. Roth promising to perform a task and then forgetting all about it. Roth saying something complimentary which Ysmet then somehow perceived to be disparaging. Roth glancing innocently in the direction of other females and being caught doing so. Roth… Roth. Roth?

The young Gleeman's brow furrowed… come to think of it, the fracas always seemed to stem from things that _he_ did, or did not do. Words that _he_ said… or wrote… or even thought, since it was widely acknowledged that women could peer into men's minds and discern what they were thinking about. Really! When was the last time that he had objected to Ysmet's ill-behaviour? Never! Well, of course he would not dare. His Noble lady-wife was an extremely dangerous woman when her temper was roused, which it often was. Were it not for the awkward fact that Roth loved Ysmet deeply and wished to grow old with her and, if possible, die in her arms, he would have run away to join a travelling carnival long since!

Still… this had to be the first time that the cause of one of their frequent falling-outs was something so untoward and unimportant as a small _scar_ , of all things! A _duelling_ scar, to be precise, considered a mark of honour in Ebou Dar, home-city of his fiery spouse. A badge of courage that Roth had never wished to possess, but now reluctantly bore upon his finely-formed features… and a questionable adornment which Ysmet fervently longed to acquire, yet sadly lacked. An absurd excuse for her unreasoning resentment! Though pointing this out had inevitably led to the argument (the latest of many) and further resulted in Roth inexpertly rowing himself ashore in the jolly-boat, so that he might pace upon the beach and brood over the unfairness of it all. Allowing his wayward feet to take him up into the Ghost Forest wherein he might better sulk over his wife's foul mood had probably not been such a good idea, however… certainly, it was taking things a bit far.

Well, enough time had elapsed for Ysmet's fury to fade… with any luck, she might even be rather worried about him by this? Roth certainly hoped so, and rather looked forward to the passionate interlude which might well follow-on from their kissing and making-up, as it so often did once his wife's anger had abated. Truly, marriage was a strange state of affairs! Yes, reconciliation… the bunk in the Captain's cabin of the captured and nameless ship was a deal more comfortable than their lumpy bed in the cabin had been, if less spacious. Still, there were ways to compensate for such limitations, as Roth shortly intended to demonstrate…

With this pleasant anticipation in mind, Roth promptly ceased fingering his unfortunate scar, turned and took a single, decisive step in the direction of the shore and the sail-craft moored off it, out beyond the reef where they had originally foundered. But then he froze, listening intently… _voices!_ The sound of harsh speech, steadily approaching. In consternation, Roth glanced rapidly about, considering but then immediately rejecting the foolish plan of ducking around a small bush… he was no _Aielman_ , with the skulking skill to conceal himself behind such meagre cover! The trees to either side were tall and straight, lacking boughs or branches within grasping range, the bark smooth and bereft of handholds. Besides, Roth had never been much adept at climbing anything in particular, arboreal heights being no exception.

The unknown speakers were closer now, too close for comfort, their cadences indicative of the debased Old Tongue spoken here, in this dreadful land. Despite his loathing for all forms of physical exertion, Roth turned to flee in the opposite direction, for all that this would only take him deeper into the dangerous forest… but then; the noise of _more_ talking converging on his position from that way also! _Definitely_ using the ancient language of the Age of Legends, albeit a primitive dialect, which could only confirm that the approaching strangers were some of the locals, and unlikely to be friendly. More likely to be _hungry_ , doubtless.

Roth felt panic, an old and disagreeable companion of his oft-imperilled existence, rising within. He must hide! But naturally, he was wearing his prized Gleeman's cloak… the brightly-hued, fluttering patches would make for but poor camouflage, he suspected. Clearly, there was nothing else for it… by the sound of things, the conversing natives before and behind were almost upon him. Roth darted a hand into a particular pocket, plucking out a small, round pipe. Whilst slipping behind the nearest tree, he then raised this simple instrument to his lips and blew a single, shrill note.

Immediately, the murmur of strange voices to either side ceased… confident that, courtesy of the Pipe- _ter'angreal_ gifted him by Old Willi, the rotund wine-sot of a Master Gleeman whom Roth had stood 'prentice to, his presence was now thoroughly hidden from enemy eyes, he waited to see what would happen next. The young Gleeman considered drawing the long poignard from its sheath in his boot, but did not dare… for the aura of arcane invisibility about him to function properly, he must remain absolutely still. With this in mind, Roth proceeded to do his very best to restrict his terrified trembling to the bare minimum, and to quiet his panicked breathing as much as ever he was able. _Why_ had he foolishly trespassed alone into these ghostly woods? Well, the reason was obvious. This was _clearly_ all Ysmet's fault. _Wives!_

Abruptly, a trio of men came into view, stalking soundlessly from the direction of the Ocean… all thoughts of recrimination vanished from Roth's mind as he examined them fearfully. None of the three strangers appeared to be armed, they were clad in rough furs, crude ochre tattoos inked into their bare skin. Bronze torcs encircled their necks, faces hidden behind red masks, a laughing mouth etched into the leather. Predatory eyes stared through the holes in these disturbing, false faces, scanning their surroundings with wary suspicion. The way that these searching gazes passed over Roth's position without seeming to register his presence reassured the fear-struck Gleeman that the _ter'angreal_ was performing its particular function adequately. Roth almost breathed a sigh of relief, before stopping himself just in time. These masked strangers might have _heard_ … it would not do to give the game away. If he could just stay still and silent until these macabre individuals departed, then all would be well.

Roth's attention – ever inclined to stray elsewhere – returned to the hidden features of these savage-seeming individuals; and that which hid them. Red masks… he had overheard the unusual Age of Legends Hero discussing such accoutrements with the Warders, had he not? Roth wished that he had paid closer attention to the words of the eccentric Master Shieldman and the responses of those grim Gaidin… _what_ did these blood-hued grinning guises portend? Nothing good, of a certainty.

The whip-slim, masked man at the centre of the small group paused and held up a hand. The two following halted at this sign, continuing to search their environs closely; cold and unblinking eyes flicking back and forth. " _What was that sound?_ " wondered this leader, speaking the Old Tongue with a thick accent so that Roth could barely discern his meaning, despite an extensive knowledge of the High Chant.

" _A bird call?_ " surmised one of the other red-masks, a slouching, slovenly-looking fellow. The third, stocky stranger mutely shook his head, evidently disagreeing.

The thin individual in charge clearly concurred, also shaking his head in negation, smiling mask turning back and forth. " _I never heard no bird as sounded like that_ ," he hissed. Roth repressed a moan of dismay… but only just! The leader continued, speculatively and suspiciously; "t _was no creature of the air, nor the land neither_ ," he declared, " _it sounded much like a_ flute."

" _Well,_ you _would know_..." The new voice was deep and spoke in hard tones, tinged with malevolent amusement; it came from behind Roth. He forced himself to resist turning to see who had uttered these words. In any event, in short-order a big, burly man strode into his field of vision, flanked by two nondescript companions, with a fourth, squat individual, long and hairy arms dangling, bringing up the rear. This short fellow appeared to be humming quietly to himself; a monotonous and continuous noise. All were clad as the first three, wore identical torcs and red masks, tattoos of the same hue etched into the skin of their bare chests and limbs.

The lean man who had spoken first nodded to the newcomer. " _Harper_."

The big man nodded back. " _Flauter_." He shrugged his broad shoulders. " _I heard it too. Didn't sound so much like a flute to my ears… more like a pipe_." He turned his large head, examining the forest to either side, dark and deadly eyes passing over Roth without pause, which the fearful Gleeman found eminently reassuring. He would _so_ much rather have been somewhere else at this juncture, however! The burly fellow's gaze returned to rest on his thin subordinate. He spoke commandingly; " _make your report, then_."

This 'Flauter' as the barrel-chested Captain – one 'Harper' presumably – had named him, answered without hesitation. " _It would seem that the Outlanders now have themselves a new ship, to replace the one as was lost in the storm_."

" _Indeed?_ " Harper glanced back at the short and hairy red-mask, loitering behind him, who appeared to be paying little attention to the proceedings. " _I well-recall that night! It was quite a hurricane, Hummer… one of your best!_ "

The squat, long-armed man cocked his masked head to one side and uttered a disturbing giggle in response to this praise, before resuming the soft, droning sound that he persistently made. None of the others seemed to find this behaviour odd, evincing no adverse reaction.

Roth frowned, worried. _Harper? Flauter? Hummer?_ Such strange names, assuming that his powers of translation were accurate. He thought that they were… but then, the young Gleeman's sea-green eyes widened in alarm. Wait! The big, hulking fellow had seemingly complimented the strange little humming chap on his summoning of a _storm_ … the very one that had wrecked them! _That_ could only mean that this Hummer had _channeled_ the gale into being! He was an accursed male-channeler… no, they _all_ were. They _must_ be, since they were clearly associates of some sort… Roth was surrounded by _Madmen!_ Oh no! And it was _still_ Ysmet who was to blame for his predicament!

" _What of the Sea Folk pirates?_ " Harper demanded, " _any survivors?_ "

Flauter shook his head slowly. " _Wiped-out in the battle that the Boss saw in the Dream… there was hard fighting done here, it would seem_."

Harper shrugged again, uncaring. " _Too bad. Though I do not believe the God will mind, overmuch. He has no great love for those Shadowsworn Atha'an Miere scum from the Smoking Islands.._."

" _Does anyone?_ " Flauter quipped, " _the Waketa have never exactly been what you might consider loveable!_ "

Harper snorted, shaking his head, while the other red-masks watched the trees around them warily. With the exception of Hummer, who was gazing upon nothing in particular whilst continuing to make the soft, droning sound... as well as the stocky, fair-haired individual standing beside Flauter, the same who had earlier silently doubted the presumed bird-call; he leaned in to mutter something indistinct into the gaunt man's ear.

Through the eyeholes in his mask, Flauter blinked, then stated in explanation; " _Whisperer says he could read the residues from the cliff-tops where we scouted those northern interlopers… there were powerful weaves cast here_."

" _Saidin or saidar?_ " Harper growled.

Again, the thickset red-mask leaned toward Flauter, shading the smiling mouth of his mask with a hand, relaying further muted information, which was then relayed as; " _both_."

" _So, our enemy have the Power too?_ " Harper commented, unconcernedly. " _Good. I like a challenge_." His deep voice became decisive. " _Alright. There's nothing more to be learned here… time to rejoin Rhymer and head back to the Hill, methinks. We can relay what we've learned to the Midnight City from there, and await further orders from the God, if he's made up his mind what course to take…_ "

" _He_ has _been distracted lately,_ " Flauter mused, " _what with one thing and another…_ "

Harper spoke coldly. " _One thing… or another?_ "

" _You know what I mean, Harper. The Boss spends too much time scheming with that haughty Hawk-girl, if you ask me…_ "

Harper eyed his subordinate flatly. " _But I_ didn't _ask you. No-one did._ "

Flauter spread his hands in a defensive gesture of mitigation. " _Don't look at me like that! I was just saying…_ "

" _Then be more careful what you say, in future,_ " Harper grimly warned, " _there are those who've lost their tongues for less_."

The short male-channeler behind briefly ceased his humming. " _The tongue is the best bit,_ " he observed in a croaking voice, speaking to no-one in particular, before resuming the monotonous droning. The others ignored him, as though accustomed to this Hummer's odd mannerisms; clearly, the small fellow was not quite all there…

" _Alright, enough gabbing,_ " Harper snarled, " _we've a ways to travel before dusk, and lucky if Rhymer doesn't get weary of the waiting and leave without us!_ " The red-masked Madmen straightened, preparing to set off.

Roth felt himself relax, overwhelming relief at having evaded detection by these deadly Madmen swelling within him. Harper took a heavy pace toward the south… then stopped, turning back.

" _Oh… I almost forgot_." Dark, merciless eyes drilled directly into Roth's and the young Gleeman felt his heart sink, his spirit shrivel. Muffled behind the sinister mask, Harper chuckled nastily. " _Tell me, my spying friend in the colourful cloak… give or take that light-bending ter'angreal which you clutch in your trembling hand… do you honestly imagine that I do not know you're there? Watching us? Listening to our plans?_ "

Roth gasped softly, shivering, and the burly red-mask laughed cruelly. " _I am Harper_ ," he continued, in tones of menacing exposition; " _once Bandit-Chief of the Eastern Wilds, a long lifetime gone, back when I wore a different face and used another name. You cannot hide from me with your little toy, fool! My eyes miss_ nothing, _I can watch the wind and stare into souls… think-you I cannot_ see _one such as yourself, hiding behind yon tree? Think again!_ "

Roth groaned loudly, with but one resentful thought on his mind…

 _Ysmet!_

* * *

"Where in the Winds is _Roth?_ " fumed the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar, and in her frustration, pounded a fist upon the teak rail lining the quarterdeck. She immediately regretted this rash action, for not only did it _hurt_ , but the wood she struck was not in the best state of repair. Cursing under her breath, Ysmet raised the hand to her mouth, sucking at several sharp splinters embedded in the skin, tasting the salty tang of her own blood.

"Would you like me to Heal that for you, Ysmet-dear?" Rashiel enquired sweetly, a slow smile curving her full lips.

Ysmet glared at her Aes Sedai friend, stood alongside, and shook her head vehemently; long, dark braids sweeping against her shoulders. "No! That would pain me even more!"

Rashiel shrugged unconcernedly. "I suppose it would, at that…" Her pale eyes returned to the beach, some way distant across a stretch of shimmering sea. "Your Gleeman spouse _has_ been gone for some time," Rashiel murmured.

Ysmet was not listening. " _Raab!_ " she shouted, in her special Captain's voice.

A small hatchway was set at the rear of the quarterdeck, abaft the wheel, and after a brief delay, Raab's darkly-curled head popped into view through it, followed by his thin and dusky face. He shaded his eyes against the fierce sunlight with a tattooed hand and gazed up at his superior with an air of personal harassment. "Sailmistress?" he queried, wearily.

"Stop calling me that!" Ysmet glared down at the _Atha'an Miere_ renegade. "I thought I told you to sand down these splintered rails, you Sea Folk lackwit?!"

Raab looked aggrieved. "That was but one of your _many_ commands to me, Sailcaptain, but I have not yet got around to performing this task…"

" _Clearly!_ " Ysmet waved her bloody hand at Raab, then sucked a final splinter from her palm and spat it daintily onto the deck at her booted feet. "And there is no such bloody word as 'Sailcaptain' you flaming fool!" she snarled, "now go and fetch some wind-cursed sandpaper!"

Raab sighed loudly, rolling his dark eyes. Rashiel sashayed over to lean down and pat the _Atha'an Miere_ sailor upon his curly head with commiseration. She directed a disapproving gaze at Ysmet. "You mustn't be so brusque with poor Raab," Rashiel chided, "not when he so bravely and cleverly saved me from that nasty Witch, Irmilla… he is a _Hero_ , remember?" Raab visibly brightened at this unaccustomed praise, puffing out his narrow chest with pigeonish pride.

Ysmet sneered. "How could I possibly forget Raab's unlikely heroic status? He keeps _reminding_ us of it, every chance he gets!"

Raab deflated his sternum and immediately began to sulk, at which he was something of an expert. "I shall return to the bilges and complete my thankless duty of pumping out the well," he stated with offended dignity, "and _then_ smooth the quarterdeck rails, as ordered… unless my Shorebound Lady has further demands of me? That I should dive overboard, evade the waiting ravening lionfishes and return with a selection of rare black pearls to adorn her Noble neck?" Raab placed a sarcastic hand over his heart, then descended slowly from sight, eyes fixed upon his Sailcaptain with righteous disapprobation. His mop of unruly curls disappeared below-decks, leaving only an awkward, lingering silence.

Ysmet broke it with a loud sigh. "Why am _I_ always the flaming villain?" she demanded, of no-one in particular.

Rashiel smirked, rejoined Ysmet at the offending rail, slipping a companionable arm through that of her friend. "Men consistently do their best to make women guilty," she observed, "they just want us to feel sorry for them."

"That is _exactly_ what Roth always does!" Ysmet confirmed, light brown eyes moving back to the beach and beyond, fruitlessly searching the sand dunes for some sign of her errant husband.

"Indeed," Rashiel agreed, pausing a moment before carefully continuing; "though perhaps you were a little hard on him, this time?"

Ysmet snatched her arm away, frowning at Rashiel. "Nonsense! A husband _needs_ discipline, requires rules… spare the rod and spoil the spouse!"

Rashiel smiled slyly. "Really, Ysmet, are you sure that you do not actually hail from _Northern_ Altara?" she enquired mischievously, "somewhere in the vicinity of Far Madding, perchance?"

Ysmet scowled, placing her hands on slim hips and staring dangerously at the young Aes Sedai. "I resent the implication, Rashiel! I am _not_ one of those man-bashing harpies from the Lake City, thank-you! I have no desire to take a whip to my husband should he displease me…" she touched the bejewelled marriage-knife that hung betwixt her breasts, "…why, in that event, I should merely wish to _stab_ him a little!"

" _Much_ more civilised a custom," Rashiel drawled, fingering her own spousal blade, less finely ornamented than Ysmet's, but equally honed to sharpness.

Ysmet failed to take note of the irony, her eyes a little glazed in recollection. "Roth had the absolute _nerve_ to say I was being childish!" she complained.

Rashiel smirked further. "Well… perhaps you were?"

Ysmet glared angrily at her compatriot of Southern Altara, opened her mouth, then closed it, considering. After a brief time had passed, with a decisive air, she exclaimed; "flaming fishguts to _this_ nonsense! I know what to do…"

"And what would that be, dearest Sailcaptain?"

"I'm going to go and _find_ that foolish Gleeman," Ysmet yelled, "and… and…"

"Apologise?"

Ysmet temporarily resumed the glare, but then her mood shifted with its customary rapidity and she smiled crookedly. "Aye… you have the right of it, my dear Rashiel… when I locate him, I'll _apologise_ Roth till he's weak in the knees!"

The two Ebou Dari women sniggered lewdly, then linked arms and descended the gangway to the main deck below. The tall figure of the Bosun stood beside the foremast, shouting instructions to the dozen sailors on watch, all engaged in splicing frayed ropes and dragging out spare sailcloth from the lockers, sorting which sections of worn canvas might be hoisted aloft for the coming voyage, their journey south. To Larcheen. At his Captain's approach, the Bosun turned, flinty eyes staring from his dark, Tairen face. He touched the iron hook replacing a lost left hand to his brow. "Your Ladyship."

"All is in hand, boatswain?" Ysmet enquired distractedly, her concerned gaze fixed on the shore.

"Aye-aye, Captain." The Bosun again utilised his hook to gesture disparagingly at the paper-thin sails being stretched out upon the deck by sweating sailors. "Those Darkfriend pirates clearly did some hard sailing afore they reached these climes, this left-over canvas is all-but worn-out, though it should serve to take us down the coast." The Bosun considered, then grimly muttered; "provided there are no more bloody _storms_ as come out of nowhere…"

Ysmet was not attending, but Rashiel was. She smiled confidently. "On the last occasion, I could do but little to quell the fierce winds that wrecked us," she stated, before producing a dark, heart-shaped jewel from her belt-pouch and bouncing it upon her palm, "but now that I possess an _angreal_ , it should be a different outcome this time, in the event of ill weather."

The Bosun eyed the jewel curiously and blinked. "Burn my soul! You've got _anangreal?_ " he exclaimed, before his brow furrowed with confusion. "Whatever is _that_ , Aes Sedai? Sounds serious!"

Rashiel frowned, opened her mouth to impatiently explain further, but Ysmet intervened. "Have one of the longboats launched, boatswain," she commanded, "and roust out the below-decks watch from their hammocks for oar-duty." Her eyes narrowed with resolve. "I mean to go ashore…"

In due course, the raised heels of Captain Ysmet's boots splashed down into the shallow surf, sinking into wet sand. She turned and extended a helping hand to Rashiel, who took it and stepped gracefully down from the longboat, her bare feet immersed in the froth of lapping waves.

The Bosun joined them, vaulting over the boat's side. "Wait here, you swabs," he told the sailors as they shipped their oars, leaping nimbly from the long and narrow craft, hauling it further up the beach, "and nobody go into the forest… not unless they want to end up in some cannibal's cookpot!"

The dozen crew glanced at each other with mute caution. Clearly, none of them had any intention of wandering into the shadows beneath the tall trees; they all well-recalled what had befallen old Hulan, the unfortunate ship's carpenter.

A hand resting lightly on her sword-hilt, Ysmet strode up into the dunes beyond the shoreline, Rashiel and the Bosun following. Off to one side stood their abandoned camp, surrounded by its shattered stockade. This encampment had served as home for a couple of months, but Ysmet had no regrets in leaving it. Her new-captured ship comprised a far more comfortable residence, not to mention a safer.

Up ahead, some manner of altercation appeared to be taking place; the Warders and Aielmen were otherwise engaged and did not immediately take note of their approach. Ysmet and Rashiel paused a dozen paces away from the warriors, observing with interest. The Bosun loomed behind, also watching closely. Swords and spears were stacked neatly nearby, though it was rare for either Gaidin or _Algai'd'siswai_ to divest themselves of weaponry… but they currently had no need of arms, and were seemingly putting alternate martial skills to the test.

On the left; the massive Shaido fighter – Ysmet thought he was called 'Grom' or some such strange, Aielish name – stood solidly upon the sand, tree-trunk legs braced, meaty hands raised. Even as the Noblewoman watched, the twin Warders Aebel and Blaek leapt at the Aiel from either side, fists poised – a brief flurry of violent motion, too fast to make out any actual details, and then it was over. The huge Aielman loomed over his erstwhile attackers, an oddly apologetic expression flickering across stony, impassive features. Aebel was clutching his midriff, gasping for breath, whilst Blaek lay flat on his back, dazed.

Meanwhile, Jabal Gaidin was trading blows with the short Aielman, who intercepted each strike with casual ease, his blocking hands flashing back and forth before his scarred face, which wore a look of detached amusement. A particularly forceful punch from the Sea Folk Warder overextended his stance, and whilst he was momentarily off-balance, the diminutive Aiel warrior, having ducked swiftly beneath the lunging fist, leapt, spun, and kicked him in the side of the head. Jabal staggered as his opponent dropped to a crouch, spinning again, lashing out a leg and sweeping the _Atha'an Miere_ Gaidin off his feet.

Ysmet blinked, opened her mouth to demand what was going on, but then Rashiel cried; "oh no! Dagnon!"

Ysmet glanced in the direction that her Aes Sedai friend was staring in time to behold the tall Murandian Warder being flipped neatly over the shoulder of the taller, one-eyed Aielman, their boastful and eccentric leader. Dagnon crashed to the ground, raising a large cloud of sand with the impact, and this Cohradin whirled with ferocious grace to complete the defeat of his adversary.

"Leave him alone!" Rashiel protested, rushing forward.

Cohradin turned at this intervention, blinking both his blue and red eyes, then shrugged. "As you wish, Aes Sedai," he concurred.

Rashiel knelt beside her Warder solicitously, assisting him to sit up. "Are you _alright_ Dagnon-dearest?" she enquired, directing a spiteful glare at Cohradin.

"I am _fine_ Rashiel," Dagnon wheezed, pushing her hands away.

Ysmet eyed Dagnon Gaidin critically – the stern, moustachioed Warder did not _look_ fine, but on the contrary, appeared rather bruised and abraded, his already shabby coat dusty and torn in places.

"I can Heal you if you like?" Rashiel offered.

Dagnon shook his head violently, then winced and clutched at his brow. " _No!_ " he groaned. Rashiel scowled, but her Warder did not seem to notice. "I am in enough pain already," he muttered, struggling to rise to his feet, "your Healing is the last thing I need, Rashiel!" The young Aes Sedai sniffed disapprovingly.

Meanwhile, the enormous Aielman had taken one of the Twin's hands in each of his own, and tugged them forcefully to their feet. Jabal yet lay supine, limbs spread-eagled, his small Aiel opponent kneeling astride his chest, one hand gripping the Sea Folk Warder's throat while the other was raised and drawn back, fingers rigidly extended for a vicious and possibly lethal blow. "Enough!" Jabal groaned, "I yield!" The short Aielman nodded curtly, lowered his striking hand, then flowed to his feet and stepped back, allowing Jabal to sit upright.

Nearby; the redheaded Aielwoman sat cross-legged, half-watching in bored fashion whilst doing something complicated with a length of twine, strung in an intricate pattern between her spread fingers. She glanced up at the Bosun, smiled secretively and winked. The Bosun smiled back, a brief twitch of the lips, before resuming his habitual stern demeanour.

"What are you all _doing?_ " Ysmet shouted, exasperated, "do we not face enough enemies already without you fool men fighting amongst yourselves?!"

The Aielmen glanced at each other uncertainly, then Cohradin spoke up; "we do not _Dance_ with the Wardermen, Ysmet Mitsobar."

The hulking Aiel warrior nodded his large head in agreement while his much smaller comrade grinned strangely, the deep scar in each cheek puckering. "If this were a _real_ fight, Roofmistress, then your Brothers of the Battles would all be _waked_ by now," the short Aielman observed cheerfully, before grabbing his _Atha'an Miere_ opponent's arm and assisting him to rise.

Jabal Gaidin nodded his thanks, dusting himself down, dark eyes moving to Ysmet. "We are but sparring, Lady Mitsobar," he explained laboriously, "honing our skills at unarmed combat." Dagnon and the Twins nodded in confirmation of this activity. Ysmet and Rashiel exchanged a sceptical glance.

Cohradin drew himself up proudly. "We _Sovin Nai_ of the Mighty Shaido are the most gifted at this form of fighting amongst all the Aiel," he declared importantly. "Naturally, the Wardermen of your White Towers wished to test their own meagre skills against us!" The Warders eyed Cohradin flatly. He failed to notice. "Their abilities in the Dance when bereft of their dishonourable swords are both pathetic and laughable!" he scoffed.

"Hoy!" Aebel and Blaek protested simultaneously.

"You are being unfair, Cohradin," the big Aielman rumbled, "as ever. These Gaidin fight well enough when unarmed. Some of their hand-to-hand techniques are not without merit."

Cohradin ignored this, or perhaps had not even heard. "These Wetlanders move slow as lizards," he jeered, "no… _slower!_ "

"Some lizards move fast," the little Aielman pointed-out.

"Only when they see _you_ coming, my brother!" Cohradin jested, "for you are the only Aiel in the Three-fold Land who favours the ill taste of their lizardy flesh!"

The compact Aiel warrior scowled darkly at this ribald comment, whilst his large comrade made a studious objection; "Cohradin, 'lizardy' is not a proper word... you should, in stead, say 'reptilian' or something of that ilk." He considered, then sighed. "If you must say anything at all..."

The short Aiel nodded in agreement, sneered, then returned to his theme. "The Sea Folk Warder shows promise," he allowed, poking Jabal with a deadly finger to further indicate who he meant, "he is no Anselan of Aramaelle, true, but after a few years under the tutelage of the Knife Hands, he might become tolerably dangerous!" Jabal blinked, clearly trying to work out whether this was a complimentary or derogatory remark...

Cohradin snorted rudely. So did Manda, though the noise she made contained more than a hint of sniff also. The _Sovin Nai_ eyed her irritably. "These knife-handed oafs are but soft-fingered blanket-wetters!" Manda loudly and scathingly observed, "if the Battle-Brothers truly wish to become formidable in the Dance of Spears, then they should train with _Far Dareis Mai!_ "

The Aielmen frowned at this rude description, but then Cohradin smiled his twisted smile. "And what might the Gaidin learn from _you_ , Maiden? How to play girlish finger-games with foolish bits of string?"

Manda scowled, and swiftly tucked the twine into her belt, rising from her seated posture with lithe, feral grace. "I shall show you, Cohradin," she snarled, "prepare to receive a hard lesson in manners from a Maiden of the Spear, as you did when Sulin of the Taardad beat you so badly at Chaendaer!"

Cohradin winced at the embarrassing recollection, then crouched, raising his hands defensively, fingers clawed, as Manda advanced on him in predatory fashion. "If you wish to be _spanked_ , foolish spear-maid, then Red-eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ shall be only too glad to administer that spanking!"

"You could not spank your way out of a perished goatskin!" Manda retorted, preparing to attack, "you are a big-"

"Excuse me!" Ysmet shouted, waving her hands to gain their attention, glaring at Aiel and Warders alike, "I hate to interrupt this… whatever this is… but I should very much like to know – have any of you seen _Roth?_ "

* * *

Lord Thaeus of House Desiama leant forward in the peculiar chair with the arms that swung out and then latched back into place, a seat bolted immovably to the deck. His chin was cupped in his hands, elbows propped upon the polished table carved from some jet-black wood that he did not recognise. If Lord Guye had been present, doubtless he would have castigated his son and heir for having his elbows so arranged. The Head of his House had always objected to such breaches of etiquette upon the long, rosewood dining table within the main hall of the Amadici manor-house in which Thaeus had been born and raised… but then, father was _not_ present.

Thaeus sincerely hoped that the old Nobleman was safe and well amidst the turmoil of these troubled times… and fervently desired that the formidable Scion of House Desiama had _not_ heard of his decision to renounce the White Cloak and Golden Sunburst, to irrevocably turn his back upon the Children of Light. _That_ was a development about which father would be far from enthusiastic, Thaeus suspected, if he discovered the unwelcome news. No, not _if_ … _when_. Lord-Captain Guye Desiama, though long-invalided from active duty, yet retained military connections throughout the Westlands, as well as no-few correspondents within the espionage communities of the scattered Nations… he was fearsomely adept at learning that which others would prefer remained secret. Thaeus had learnt this to his cost…

While these preoccupations passed through the back of his mind, Thaeus' cold gaze remained unwaveringly fixed upon the young woman seated opposite. Her dull, glazed brown eyes seemed like those of someone already dead; she might not wish to meet his accusatory stare, but like trapped prey cornered by a predator, could not bring herself to look away. Though Thaeus had left the Legions far behind, being in the presence of a Friend of the Dark most definitely brought out what vestige remained of the Whitecloak in him… he did not have to utilise any pretence in projecting an attitude of loathing and menace upon the prisoner. Thaeus had even earlier hinted at the likelihood of them putting this Darkfriend Witch to the question, in order to gain true answers concerning the plots of their enemy, and she had quailed at the prospect of such torment, resuming her monotonous sobbing for a time.

The Shadowsworn Domani captive was not to know that Thaeus had no intention of torturing her in the course of his interrogation, mostly upon moral grounds but also because he really had no idea _how_ to… he was no vile Inquisitor of the Hand of Light! And unduly glad of it, Thaeus had always despised Questioners, most particularly those debased specimens who took overt pleasure and satisfaction in the cruel duties of their office. These brutal individuals were relatively few, however, since the majority of Child-Inquisitors were too lost in their own fanaticism to be capable of enjoying _anything_.

A creaking sound came from the beams overhead as someone crossed the quarterdeck above… Thaeus ignored the noise, but Irmilla Nadona, once (if no longer) a channeler of the dark arts, glanced upward nervously, then gazed confusedly about herself, examining her surroundings as though seeing them for the first time. Unusually fine surrounding they were too, in Thaeus' estimation. Considering that this had been a Darkfriend pirate ship crewed by murderous brigands, the Captain's dining-cabin was surprisingly well-appointed, with furnishings and adornments which suggested that a certain amount of tasteful discernment had been employed in their arrangement.

Leaded windows set into the stern let in a goodly amount of sunlight, illuminating the smooth, dark wood of the tables, chairs and carved panelling which lined the curvature of the hull. The deck was equally fine, polished to a glowing sheen with beeswax, fashioned of a different manner of exotic timber which again, Thaeus did not recognise. Crossed cutlasses and tasselled boarding-pikes yet remained to decorate the panels, though the various garishly-painted human skulls had been removed and thrown overboard, along with the disturbing bas-relief of a ten-armed, tentacled monstrosity that had been hung over the door. Thaeus had no idea what this fearsome sea-creature was, but fervently hoped that such things did not exist and were merely the product of the sculptor's bizarre imagination.

Finding little comfort in her immediate environment, which took up one-half of the space in the stern – the remainder being given over to the Captain's cabin – Irmilla's attention returned reluctantly to her captor. Thaeus cleared his throat, then spoke softly but pointedly. "Let us consider again; you claim that your Mistress, the Darkfriend Hag, has made compact with this Laughing God, ruler of the insane Land that lies to our lee… but _how?_ "

Irmilla did not reply instantly, glancing down at her hands, resting in her lap, wrists secured with steel manacles. When she did speak, her voice was toneless, devoid of any life. Entirely bereft of hope, also. "I should not have told you that…"

"But you _did_ , Friend of the Dark. _Well?_ How do these two evil-doers confer with one another, separated as they are by time and distance?" The knowledge that their voyage through the arcane Stone had taken those escaping aboard the _Little Watcher_ forward along the span of the Great Wheel's turning by almost one year had come as a great surprise to all… with the exception of the enigmatic Shieldman, who had seemed already to be aware of the strange phenomenon. Irmilla mumbled something indistinct. "What was that?" Thaeus curtly requested, "I did not hear."

Irmilla raised her head, a trace of defiance in her brown eyes, though swiftly extinguished by the circumstances in which she languished. "I _said;_ they speak in _dreams!_ " she hissed.

Thaeus blinked, considering this. Rashiel Sedai had told him that such communication was possible, but otherwise possessed little lore regarding the practice, saying only that the White Tower had not possessed a 'True Dreamer' in more than five-hundred years. Though a new girl, a novice from westernmost Andor, was rumoured to possess this rare Talent, presumed lost. Thaeus' eyes narrowed. "How-?" he began to ask, but Irmilla summoned a trace of her old spirit, the defiant manner briefly returning.

"I'll tell you no more, Whitecloak Madman!" she snarled, "I should _never_ have spoke of ought that concerned my Dread Mistress… should she discover that I am your prisoner, that I have given you information, then my life will be worth less than a Tinker's cuss!"

Thaeus raised his eyebrows. He had not encountered many _Tuatha'an_ in the course of his duties, since the Travelling Folk tended to avoid the Children of Light even more assiduously than they shunned everyone else, but the few Tinkers that he occasionally met had all seemed extremely mannerly… it was difficult to imagine one of them cursing! But then, he assumed that this remark was merely some sort of play on words, presumably a syllogism peculiar to the peoples of Arad Doman?

Irmilla shuddered, her blank gaze returning to her lap. She then frowned with distaste, plucking at the skirts of the drab grey dress she wore. Rashiel Tamor had confiscated this vain Domani wench's entire wardrobe, mostly comprising of a large selection of finely-stitched and scandalously thin silken gowns. The Aes Sedai had taken vengeful pleasure in forcing Irmilla Nadona to clothe herself in the most dull apparel that could be found aboard; the plain garb of a penitent prisoner.

"Though my life is as good as over, in any case," Irmilla muttered bleakly.

"Because you have been stilled?" Thaeus prompted, repressing a smile. Irmilla shivered, not quite managing to stifle a sob, then slowly nodded. Seeing that he would get no further with his key object of enquiry for now, Thaeus elected to try a different tack… perhaps he could compel the captive Witch into dropping her guard with an alternate line of query, before returning to the main topic? "Tell me, Darkfriend; I have been wondering… why was the Gleeman so angry with you?"

Irmilla raised her head, blinking in confusion. "What?" she mumbled.

Thaeus frowned, though realisation swiftly dawned that the question was not exactly being evaded, it was more that Irmilla simply did not _care_ about so unimportant a subject. "Roth Blucha, the Falman Gleeman, husband to the Captain… when first you were brought aboard in chains, he glared at you with uncommon fury, then shouted something about a 'flute' and possibly also a 'haystack' before he stalked away." Thaeus narrowed his eyes. " _Why?_ "

Irmilla's vacant expression cleared slightly and she ventured a faint smile for an instant, before the reality of her dread predicament reasserted itself in her mind, her face falling into an expression of profound misery. "Oh… _that._ "

"Well?"

Irmilla frowned, uncaring. "It is of little concern, a minor episode from my past, from the Gleeman's also… but if you must know, he and I have met before."

"That much was clear from his averse reaction to your presence."

Irmilla sighed softly, her eyes assuming a faraway look. "When first I fled the White Tower, as a novice-"

" _After_ you vilely murdered a Cadet Warder!"

"It was not so vile as all that… I saw to it that the Youngling Revan did not suffer overmuch." Thaeus snorted contemptuously, but Irmilla did not seem to have heard, continuing tonelessly; "well, in any case, I found myself a hunted fugitive on the Caemlyn road with little food and less coin… I fell-in with a young Gleeman, newly come to his all-but patchless cloak, whom I encountered outside of an Inn."

"Roth Blucha?"

"Who else? The fool Gleeman had just been slung out of his room for non-payment of the bill, as well as upsetting the entire common-room with scurrilous songs and jests, and was fortunate to have avoided a beating… since he was also on his way down into Andor, we decided to travel together." Irmilla looked vaguely animated, for a moment; "well, he _was_ rather comely, after all… still is, though he could profit from a shave." She shrugged. "The youthful idiot had even less wealth to his name than I, of course… after it began to rain heavily, a league or so down the road, we were forced to take shelter inside a haystack, where we spent the night."

"A… haystack?"

"We could not afford so much as the meanest of lodgings in a stable, had there even been any more Inns or farms in the vicinity, and since there were no barns available either, it seemed the best option!"

"Well, that explains one of Roth's remarks, I suppose… but what of his mention of a _flute?_ And why was the Gleeman so angered at the sight of you?"

Again, Irmilla smiled slightly before the curving of her pouting lips swiftly faded. "After an uncomfortable but not altogether unenjoyable night, I woke at dawn, and noting that young Roth was yet comatose, decided that the best course of action would be to continue my journey, _without_ the tedious company of the snoring Journeyman, but _with_ the sole item in his possession of any worth – a gold-chased flute, gifted him by the Master Gleeman under whose tutelage he'd studied his ignoble craft. I had been told that it was a present, to mark the end of his lengthy apprenticeship. In any case, I took the item in question and silently departed…"

Thaeus scowled. " _Thief!_ " he barked.

Irmilla pouted a little. "I have been called worse names far than _that_ ," she revealed, "and selling the flute provided me with more than enough funds to travel down to Caemlyn in comfort."

Thaeus shook his head with slow disapproval. "Little wonder that Roth did not react well to meeting you again, after all these years…"

Once more, Irmilla almost smiled. "We did more than just _sleep_ in the haystack," she pointed-out primly, "I would say that the young Gleeman was well recompensed for his silly instrument…"

Thaeus sneered. "There are worse names than that of 'thief' and your mention of compensation certainly brings some of them to mind!"

At this jibe, Irmilla forgot her misery enough to momentarily scowl. "That which _those_ sorts of women do for money, _I_ do for pleasure!" she protested. Irmilla considered a moment, then thoughtfully added; "or advancement, of course. A woman alone in the world must use every advantage she has, to better her situation." Her dull gaze became slightly speculative as she looked Thaeus up and down. "For example; should it happen that a handsome, well set-up young fellow such as yourself, in return for certain concessions, might be interested in a… liaison..?"

"I should sooner bed a _snake!_ " Thaeus spat.

Irmilla bared her white, even teeth in an expression that was certainly no smile, her dark eyes drilling into the young Lord's. "Your proclivities are your _own_ business, Whitecloak… but don't spurn something until you have at least _tried_ it!"

"What… snakes? Or you?"

Irmilla sniffed, then lowered her eyes demurely. Thaeus recalled her less suggestive words, and demanded; "hold! _What_ concessions? You surely do not imagine that we shall let you go free, Darkfriend? Impossible! You must answer for your crimes…"

Irmilla did not trouble to look up. "No, of course not," she muttered contemptuously, "I merely meant that as a reward for… favours… you might convince that harlot Rashiel to restore certain of my _gowns_ to me!"

Thaeus stared. "Your… gowns?"

Irmilla raised her gaze, narrowing her eyes at her interrogator. "Yes, of course! My fine silk dresses… or failing that, even one or two of the cotton skirts I more recently acquired… do you honestly imagine that I relish garbing myself in _this?_ " For purposes of illustration, Irmilla tugged at the ill-fitting bodice of her drab, grey garment.

Thaeus blinked. _truly, females are mysterious beings!_ he considered, _they elude all understanding…_ He shrugged. "Perhaps some trade of that nature might be arranged," he speculated, "though not in terms of carnality, but rather were you to answer my questions truthfully and in detail. Now, this Mistress of yours, who seeks the destruction of the Aes Sedai, my sister and her companions… where-?"

"I _told_ you, crazed Whitecloak, I'll speak no more concerning Arachnae Kirikil!" Irmilla spat, "for I fear her ire far more than anything _you_ may do to me!"

"I would not be so sure of that, Darkfriend," Thaeus growled threateningly, "and besides, think you that this wretched Hag can harm you _here_ , from half a world away?"

Irmilla shuddered, terror and anguish filling her eyes. "There is _nowhere_ that my Dread Mistress cannot reach," she stated with morbid resignation, "and _none_ who are safe from her deadly 'fluence!"

"You clearly possess quite an imagination," Thaeus commented flatly.

Irmilla glared at him. "Wait and see! When my Mistress visits you in your unquiet sleep, you shall swiftly discover the true meaning of horror, _boy!_ "

Thaeus frowned, began to speak further; but abruptly, a small black sphere popped into existence, hovering over the centre of the jet-hued table. The apparition hung in the air, just beneath the beams supporting the quarterdeck above. The ebon, eldritch ball, composed of a dark, smoky substance, riven with jagged streaks of silvery fire, began to float slowly down toward Irmilla – in affrighted response, she shrank away from it, fear twisting her slack features. "What is _that?_ " she gasped, "why did you summon it, Madman?"

Thaeus grinned, shaking his head. "You have the wrong of it, Witch, just as you did when you chose to betray the Light. _I_ did not channel that wreaking of _saidin_ into being…" he nodded toward the corner of the cabin, "… _he_ did."

Irmilla turned her head, pretty mouth falling slackly open, and uttered a low moan. Thaeus glanced in the same direction, though he already knew what he would see. The Sharan youth Hamadi sat crosslegged upon the polished deck, leaning back against the bulkhead. He was smiling slightly and the eyes set in his intricately tattooed face – one very dark, the other red and dimly glowing – were fixed upon the sphere of smoke and fire, his brow furrowed with concentration.

"What is he _doing?_ " Irmilla gasped, in dread-tinged tones.

"I am not entirely certain," Thaeus replied casually, "but whatever that is he controls, you certainly may not like the consequences of its effects, should it touch you. Better to answer my questions, hmm?"

The _saidin_ -ball, revolving slowly, drifted closer to Irmilla – she seemed to be trying her best to sink through the chair and down into the deck to get away from it. Thaeus watched the flashing sphere also, fascination coloured with envy in his eyes. It took real willpower to resist the urge to channel also… Without taking his eyes from his creation, Hamadi spoke softly, the liquid words of his exotic tongue heavy with foreboding.

"What did he say?" Irmilla implored, her panicked gaze fixed on the dark, roiling ball, now almost upon her.

Thaeus answered promptly, if less than truthfully. "Hamadi states that if you do not tell us that which we wish to know, he will use this device of the One Power to tear the shrivelled soul from your body and leave you but an empty, mindless husk!" Irmilla moaned again, trembling violently. In all honesty, Thaeus no-more knew the meaning of Hamadi's indecipherable speech than did the captive Darkfriend, for each male-channeler understood barely a score of words in the other's language! But previously, the two of them – with Naythan Gaidin's assistance as interpreter – had agreed upon this tactic to elicit the required information, should their prisoner prove intransigent.

Hamadi might not comprehend what Thaeus and Irmilla had been saying in the Vulgar, but he was no fool and would have been able to discern from expression and body-language that the interrogation was not proceeding well. So, the Sharan youth had chosen his moment to intervene wisely… as for the smoking ball, Thaeus strongly doubted that it was capable of ripping someone's spirit from their physical form; more likely, it was merely a harmless weaving of Air and Fire, designed to intimidate and scare their captive. And judging by the Darkfriend's reaction, it had evidently succeeded in this!

"Alright, I'll tell you all!" Irmilla wailed, "just don't let that beastly Sharan _Souvraniene_ steal my soul!"

"Whyever not?" Thaeus enquired disparagingly, adding; "it cannot have been of great value to you, since you've already sold your pitiful shreds of spirit to Shai'tan!" He motioned surreptitiously to Hamadi, even so. At this sign, the young Ayyad closed his eyes and the sphere tinged with silver flame immediately winked out of existence, as rapidly as it had first appeared. Irmilla breathed a gusty sigh of relief, sitting up straighter in her odd, confining chair, though her trembling continued unabated. "Now," Thaeus began, in serious tones, "you shall tell us all you know concerning the plans of the wicked old Friend of the Dark whom you served. Omit nothing and do not attempt to hide the truth. I may not always know when you are lying, but Hamadi there is a different matter. That crimson eye of his can see into the innermost depths of your murderous mind, Darkfriend Witch!"

Irmilla glanced back at Hamadi uncertainly and he grinned evilly, tattoos writhing around his mouth with the facial movement. The Sharan Ayyad then went so far as to utter a low, sinister laugh.

 _don't overdo it, Hamadi!_ Thaeus silently urged his compatriot. Though during his time in the Legions, Thaeus had not participated in the questioning of Darkfriend prisoners, he was familiar with a technique whereby a pair of Inquisitors of the Hand of Light would adopt differing mannerisms for the purposes of manipulating the responses of their captive subject, to elicit truth. Thaeus had overheard some Questioners speak of this; in situations where torture was not a viable option but more a last resort, one Child Inquisitor would portray an aggressive and malevolent role whilst the other might play an amenable, sympathetic part. In fear of the former, the captive Darkfriend might well prove to be more forthcoming with the latter.

This was what they had decided to do with one Irmilla Nadona, Shadowsworn channeler and former novice of the White Tower… and it seemed to be working. Irmilla took a deep, shuddering breath, then began to speak quickly and quietly, telling Thaeus a great deal, confirming that which he had only suspected and revealing unconsidered facts in addition… all the while, darting frequent nervous glances at Hamadi. The Ayyad youth confined himself to staring at her dangerously from his place in the corner. The red eye certainly helped to instil menace…

Whilst listening attentively, Thaeus silently congratulated himself on that last bit of invention with regard to the lie-detecting eye… and despite his hatred for Darkfriends, he continued to smile approvingly at Irmilla throughout the remainder of the interrogation, occasionally offering kindly words of encouragement. It would not do to neglect staying firmly in character, for while in this instance Hamadi was clearly the 'bad thief-taker…' Thaeus was, after all, the _good._

* * *

"Well, Knife-Brother? What befell the Gleeman?"

Chassin did not answer, nor rise from his low crouch as he moved with painstaking care over the ground, without disturbing so much as a leaf in the course of his stealthy passage. Blue eyes scanned for signs; missing nothing, interpreting everything.

Cohradin stood to one side, idly twirling his short-hafted spear back and forth, senses alert for any danger… and here, in the Ghost Forest, the dangers were many. But Red-Eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai_ had oft walked abroad within the Great Blight of Sightblinder, where all that moved and much which did not could kill the unwary. He had journeyed on several occasions to the deadly lands of Forbidden Shara and also survived the treacherous Waterless Sands of the Termool… so some damp woods full of channeling lunatics and pointy-toothed fools who ate each other held no fears for him! And nor did anything else. Even for a Shaido Aiel, Cohradin was utterly fearless… except for that one particular thing which troubled him greatly and chased him in his ill-dreams, the very disturbing thing he did not like to think about. Except that.

With both his real and artificial eyes, Cohradin curiously watched Chassin casting about over the ground, not unlike one of those Shienaran sniffing-hounds that Gerom had told him of. He wondered whether to speak again, but decided against it. He should not distract his Knife-Brother whilst the diminutive Shaido practiced his particular skill. Like all Aiel, especially _algai'd'siswai_ , Cohradin was an excellent tracker and could follow the path of human and animal alike over broken, rocky ground where a mere Wetlander would see nothing but his own foolish shadow. But Chassin was prenaturally gifted at discerning signs that others might miss. He always had been, for as long as Cohradin could remember…

As boys, they would play a game whereby Cohradin and Gerom would go into the wilderness beyond the borders of Wet Sands Hold, moving as carefully as they could, leaving no indication of their passage in the sand, not disturbing even the smallest pebble… after travelling some distance, they would conceal themselves in a gully or cave, and then wait for Chassin to find them. Which he always did.

Cohradin blinked, recollecting one such occasion, long ago… yes, it had been in that particularly deep cave that they had discovered those ancient bones wrapped in shreds of golden cloth, where Gerom acquired his most prized possession. But for his books, of course. Though the thing in the cave was equally of worth to the big Shaido scholar, Cohradin suspected… infrequently, he had spied upon Gerom late at night, noting how his near-brother would take the item out of its place of concealment in the middle of his blanket-roll and examine it, stroking its gleaming surface whilst muttering to himself. Strange behaviour for Gerom! That find of his certainly was… precious to him.

Cohradin soon became bored with Chassin's preoccupation however, and entirely disregarded his resolve to not disturb his near-brother's activities. "The Gleeman?" he repeated, in louder tones.

Chassin blinked, then glanced up at Cohradin, eyes staring blankly. "Huh?"

"What became of Roth Blucha?" Cohradin impatiently enquired.

Chassin considered a moment, then shrugged. "Nothing good."

Cohradin raised an eyebrow – well, he had little choice in this as the impressive scar stretching across his face had long-since rendered the other brow immobile – and opened his mouth to demand further details, as he often needed to with the irritatingly obtuse Chassin. But then, a low whistle sounded through the trees to the south. Cohradin promptly whistled back. After a moment, Gerom and Manda came drifting silently into view. "I see you, Gerom," Cohradin called, "I see you also, Maiden of the silly-strings!"

Manda glared at Cohradin, but did not reply, beyond making a rude and vulgar gesture at him. Gerom frowned, tucked his spear behind the bow-harness at his back, and raised his large hands, using secretive _Sovin Nai_ signs;

 _silence Knife-Leader! enemy territory – keep trail-discipline!_

Cohradin sneered, though since his twisted upper lip was already arranged in a permanent expression of derision – again, due to the long facial scar, as well as his contemptuous attitudes – it might be more accurate to say that he sneered _more._ "There are none hereabouts who might overhear us!" Cohradin scoffed, "and even if there were, we would soon wake them. The dead listen to _nothing!_ "

Gerom sighed deeply, moving over with his customary dangerous assurance to peer down at Chassin, who had resumed his examination of the ground about him. Manda followed, lithely graceful as ever, scowling at Cohradin as she slipped past. " _Pig!_ " she hissed.

Cohradin grinned at Manda goadingly, then noted that Gerom, whilst watching Chassin, was tugging at his collar again, and frowning. "Why do you keep doing that, my brother?" he wondered idly, "pulling upon your garments in such a fidgety fashion?"

Gerom's frown deepened. "This _cadin'sor_ is ill-fitting," he muttered, "the britches constrictive, the sleeves and neck of the coat too tight… I must adjust my warrior's garb again, when time permits."

Cohradin nodded sagely. Since both he and Gerom had burned their distinctive clothing after they chose to become _Da'tsang_ and _Gai'shain_ respectively, they had had to replace this apparel with the only _cadin'sor_ available, when they regained their senses and took up the spear again.

Cohradin was currently wearing the coat and britches of the Shadowrunner Medelin, or _Mastri_ as he had foolishly named himself anew, the overconfident Madman whom he had violently waked. The dead man's _cadin'sor_ fit well-enough, since they had been of a size; Gerom had changed the cut of the coat from that of the _Sha'mad Conde_ Warrior Society to _Sovin Nai_ , but since Medelin had also once been an _algai'd'siswai_ of the Wet Sands Shaido, this was the only alteration needed. Apart from sewing up the large hole over the left side of the chest, where Cohradin's knife-hand had punched through cloth, skin and ribs, to tear out the Madman's heart, of course. Though it had been given a thorough washing, the coat yet bore gore-stains from the encounter… but Cohradin cared not. Having the life-blood of an enemy upon one's _cadin'sor_ was a mark of high honour, he considered.

However, Gerom had then been left with only the _cadin'sor_ of the slain _Duadhe Mahdi'in_ , Ruon, to wear… though a bigger man than Medelin had been, the dead Water Seeker's garb was still not near large enough, and despite extensive adjustments to the coat and britches, they yet did not fit Gerom particularly well.

Cohradin found this amusing, naturally. "I pity you, Gerom… you resemble two-hundredweights of sand stuffed into a one-hundredweight sack!" he jested.

Gerom eyed Cohradin flatly and did not trouble to respond to this jibe. Manda, still angered by the string-insults, continued to glare at Cohradin poisonously, ignoring his words. Chassin, preoccupied with the marks in the dirt, was not attending either. Cohradin sighed. Unfortunate, that there were none present who might properly appreciate his wit, his fine jokes! It was irksome. The Gleeman would doubtless have found that remark funny, very funny indeed, laughing long and loud. But he was not here. Where was the strutting fool? Which manner of misfortune had befallen him? What had become of the idiotic Roth Blucha _this_ time?

Chassin supplied the answer, rising smoothly, speaking softly; "the red-masked Madmen of this 'Laughing God' we hear tell of… they have the Gleeman. He yet lives, I believe, I have found no blood-trails, but they have taken him south…" Chassin nodded in the direction from which Gerom and Manda had come.

"We saw sign of someone coming this way," Manda ventured, "but-"

"How know you it was these foolish Redmasks who took Roth Blucha captive?" Cohradin demanded, rudely interrupting Manda and further angering the Spear-Maiden. "By what means did you learn this, my brother?"

Chassin eyed Cohradin scathingly. "The tracks are easy to tell, a child could do it…" He pointed at the ground. "Seven men wearing boots, they surrounded the Gleeman here…"

"But how-?"

"Because I have seen certain of these prints _before_ , Cohradin! One of the soles has a square piece of leather missing, another still the same small stone stuck in the cleat… it is _obvious!_ "

Gerom's heavy brow furrowed. "Where have you seen such signs previously, Chassin?"

"In the cave on the isle-land with the tall and shiny thing!" The other Shaido looked at each other with mute incomprehension. Chassin scowled. "Must I explain _all_ to you? When I went in the boat with the Gaidin who speaks strangely and has the reddish hairs upon his top lip, the wizened sailormen also… and the Gleeman too, though he was of little use in the raid, unsurprisingly. Do you not recall? We were sent to scout the enemy by the Roofmistress, Ysmet Mitsobar, to spy upon those fools who paint their faces alike to birds… our duty was to see if the Aes Sedai hostages might be rescued…"

Chassin waved an impatient hand at the ground again. "Even though the Nightwatcher joined us, as did the escaped _Atha'an Miere_ Warderman, we failed in our task. We came too late… these Madmen in their red masks, they took the three Sisters of the White Tower from the island, the Sharawoman too, and it would seem that they have now taken the Gleeman also…" his voice became confusedly speculative; "…though what the Madmen could possibly want with Roth Blucha of all people, I cannot say."

"Well, they _are_ mad… perhaps, then, they actually _enjoy_ being irritated?" Cohradin suggested.

"Then they should have taken _you_ , Cohradin!" Manda snarled, "for you are the most irritating swine in existence!"

Cohradin studiously ignored the Maiden of the Spear. "How much of a head-start do they have?" he asked Chassin.

The short Knife Hand shrugged again. "Who can say… half a day, perhaps less… why?" Cohradin grinned, and did not answer.

"What do you intend, Cohradin?" Gerom enquired, eyeing the _Sovin Nai_ leader curiously if cautiously.

"I mean to take Roth Blucha back from his captors! He is _our_ Gleeman, not theirs! They have no right to steal him away from the _Sovin Nai_ without permission!"

"Why is he _your_ Gleeman?" Manda wondered, temporarily forgetting her ire, replaced as it was by puzzlement.

"Because we found him _first!_ " Cohradin declared, then turned to the other Knife Hands. "Do you not remember, my brothers? Roth Blucha came crawling out of the Blight with a parched throat and his belly sticking to his backbone, half-dead and raving about worms and dwarves! Because of his patched-cloak we did not slay him for trespassing upon Shaido lands, but in stead took him back to Wet Sands Hold that old Sadora might nurse him back to what little health the skinny, weedy fool may lay claim to…"

"Yes. Sadora restored the Gleeman's constitution with many bowls of her delicious and nourishing spicy-spider soup," Chassin recalled, with a faraway look.

"Roth Blucha did not much care for _that_ ," Gerom added, shaking his big head slowly back and forth.

Cohradin chuckled at the memory of the dreadful, ancient Wise One of his Sept forcing the Gleeman to eat her vile, greyish broth, then noted that Chassin appeared to be serious in his estimation of the culinary merits of this horrid dish. "Really, Chassin? You think old Sadora's disgusting spidery soup _delicious?_ "

Chassin blinked, then nodded. "Yes, of course. Why not?"

Cohradin shuddered. "Is there _nothing_ you might not devour, my brother?"

Chassin considered, then shook his head slowly. "Not much." He grinned his rare, disturbing grin, the matching scars in his cheeks deepening. "Though I would not eat _you_ , Cohradin!"

"My thanks, Chassin. _Ji'e'toh_ would forbid this behaviour, of course, but I appreciate the-"

Chassin spoke over Cohradin, explaining further; "I would _never_ consume you, my brother, for fear of catching whatever lunacy it is that afflicts you!"

Manda sniggered and Gerom uttered his infrequent, booming guffaw, slapping his thigh. Cohradin glared at Chassin, who was looking smug, as he always did when he imagined that he had said something funny. "That was not even so fine a jest as my wry quip about the sack!" Cohradin objected, "and yet you fools react as though it were!" The mirth redoubled, Chassin giggling also, the very occasional, high-pitched sound he made when he was amused. Cohradin's eyes, blue and red, narrowed.

"Those who laugh at their _own_ jokes are not near so mirthsome as they _think_ they are," Cohradin observed reprovingly… but no-one was listening to him.

* * *

"Are you all _quite_ certain that you do not know where Roth has disappeared off to on _this_ occasion?" the Lady Ysmet of House Mitsobar was demanding, and not for the first time. She glared at the four Gaidin of the White Tower, stood assembled upon the dunes. They mutely shook their heads, though without taking watchful and wary gazes from the surroundings. The quartet of Warders had retrieved their swords, were keeping cautious eyes on all points of the compass.

Rashiel Tamor, Aes Sedai, turned away from the sea whereon the captured ship – their ticket home! – bobbed upon the waves, moored out beyond the reef shoals from which the masts and part of the drowned hull of the poor old wrecked _Queen Mab_ yet rose from the sparkling water. Rashiel glanced up at the forbidding forest to the south, and sighed.

"Well… what was my husband _doing_ , before he vanished into the woods?" Ysmet further desired to know. Dagnon and the Twins glanced briefly at Jabal Gaidin before resuming their watch – clearly, as the senior Warder present, they viewed it as his prerogative to answer. His thankless duty, also!

The dark-skinned Sea Folk Swordmaster shrugged. "The Gleeman paced up and down upon the beach for a time," Jabal Gaidin recalled, before speculating; "he seemed oppressed in his demeanour… appeared to be talking to himself."

"Yes, Roth does tend to do that," Ysmet absently agreed, "usually when he is composing a song or some such foolishness…" She blinked, then her eyes narrowed dangerously. "And you fool swordsmen just let him go wandering off into the forest on his own?!"

Jabal Gaidin exchanged a brief and long-suffering glance with Lord Dagnon, then shook his head. "Not at all, Lady Ysmet. I would have sent one of our number with the Gleeman, or gone myself… or better still, deterred him from going in the first place. But regrettably, we were all preoccupied by the sparring match conducted with the Aielmen. One moment Master Blucha was nearby, and the next… he was not."

Ysmet sniffed contemptuously. "The fabled abilities of White Tower Warders at detection leave much to be desired, it would seem," she scathingly observed.

"Really, Ysmet, that just isn't fair!" Rashiel protested, adding; "and besides, if you or I were receiving so complete a drubbing from fearsome Aiel warriors as these poor lads endured, we should likely not have noticed much else either!"

The Gaidin all glared at the Aes Sedai, Dagnon in particular. "We were _not_ 'drubbed' Rashiel!" he vehemently objected, "you should ne'er say such things!" The others nodded firmly, as if such unanimous agreement might negate their bruised and dishevelled state. It did not.

Rashiel pouted. "Well, whatever your opponents were doing to you, they certainly seemed to be making a good job of it!" she muttered. The Twins scowled an identical scowl, Jabal frowned and Dagnon tugged at the points of his large, reddish moustache in that sulky way of his.

"Never mind your silly play-fighting and injured pride!" Ysmet snapped, "did Roth _say_ anything to you, before he left? Give any indication of _why_ he would just go walking away like that?"

Jabal Gaidin hesitated, then declared; "when first I took note of his ill-mood, I enquired of the Gleeman what was amiss… but he gave no answer."

"He looked dejected," Aebel observed. His brother promptly refuted this. "Disconsolate," Blaek stated. Aebel frowned, opened his mouth to argue…

Rashiel forestalled him. "Well, let us just settle on 'depressed,' shall we?" she smoothly interjected, before arching an eyebrow at Ysmet, "though I cannot for the life of me imagine _why!_ "

The Lady Ysmet glared at her Aes Sedai friend. "Alright, so we argued!" she cried, "but a tiny disagreement is still no good reason for Roth to go traipsing off into the accursed Ghost Forest and thence get eaten-up by savage cannibals!"

"With any fortune, they shall devour his _tongue_ first," Dagnon Gaidin growled softly. The other Warders all sniggered rudely, then hastily resumed their composure. Ysmet touched her sword-hilt and eyed the Murandian Lord levelly. He blinked, colouring a little. "Forgiveness, milady, one-thousand apologies! I spoke in haste, without due consideration… my remark was inappropriate and unmannerly, not to mention insensitive... and also rather-"

"Yes, _alright_ , I accept your words of mitigation," Ysmet impatiently interrupted, "but I simply don't have time to listen while you spend the rest of the day saying that you're _sorry!_ "

"My dear Dagnon can be somewhat verbose when it comes to the admission of guilt," Rashiel murmured, smiling fondly at her lover and protector.

Ysmet was not listening, had turned toward the forest stretching out beyond the cliffs that loomed above. "Where in the Winds are those bloody Aiel? They should have returned by now…" Her chin firmed with resolve. "To the black and Storm-cursed Maelstrom with this waiting around, I shall go and find Roth myself… come along, Rashiel!" Ysmet promptly set-off, striding confidently up into the dunes that extended further inland, heading for the treeline beyond.

Rashiel had to hurry to catch up, hitching at her silken robe, bare feet scuffing in the sand. "Hold up, Ysmet!" she gasped, "is this a good idea? If the Aielmen cannot locate Master Blucha, then assuredly no-one can… assuming that there is anything left of poor Roth to find…"

Ysmet looked over her shoulder impatiently, not ceasing her swift pace. "Roth is _my_ beloved husband, Rashiel," she cried, "and I his adoring wife… which means that no-one is allowed to kill and eat him except _me!_ "

Rashiel blinked, then increased her speed to almost draw level with her ferocious friend; long, tan legs flashing beneath the hiked-up skirts of her gown. "If I did not know better, I should believe that _you_ had been born in the Rahad and not _I,_ " she gasped, panting, as they laboured upwards from dunes to cliff-tops, the Warders hastily following.

"What was that?"

"Oh… nothing."

"Cease your wheezing and keep up, Rashiel!"

As the pair of bickering Ebou Dari females reached the edge of the forest, the quartet of accompanying Gaidin forming a protective ring about them, a slender figure clad in browns, greens and greys, emerged soundlessly from the trees, an arrow nocked to her horn bow. Ysmet and the Warders immediately tensed, half-drawing their blades, while Rashiel opened herself instantly to _saidar_ , feeling the potent forces flow into her, magnified considerably by the _angreal_ she clutched. But then, they relaxed, recognising the Aiel spear-maid Manda.

Fierce blue-green eyes examined them narrowly from above a black veil, then the tall Aielwoman took her fingers from the bowstring to reach up and tug the cloth down. Manda smiled crookedly, in feral fashion. "I see you, shipmates!" she called out, in high, clear cadences, before erroneously adding; "avast!"

Rashiel raised her eyebrows. "Ship… mates..?" she repeated, surprised.

"Avast..?" Ysmet muttered.

Manda nodded. "These are the correct names?" Her gaze moved from Rashiel to Ysmet. "Your sailorman of Tear taught some boat-words to me… amongst other things. He has a fund of odd nautical terms which I knew not..."

"Indeed?" Ysmet's voice was cold. She and Manda clearly did not much care for each other, Rashiel had noticed and was fairly certain that the prime cause of this antipathy was currently blundering about in the woods, hopelessly lost!

"Yes…" Manda confirmed, "the 'Bosun' as he calls himself has told me much of the sea… though has yet to tell me his true-name!" Her tone assumed a wondering note; "truly, you Wetlanders are strange people, these sailing-folk most of all… your boatswain and I have coupled several times now, but he has yet to properly introduce himself!"

The Gaidin shuffled their feet and avoided each other's eyes. Rashiel put a serpent-ringed hand over her mouth to hide her smile. Ysmet sniffed disapprovingly. "We _Westlanders_ do not discuss such activities so openly!" she primly and censoriously pointed-out. Manda shrugged unconcernedly, not bothering to respond. Ysmet's eyes narrowed. "Clearly, Aiel savages _do!_ " she added, derisively.

Manda narrowed her eyes too, only more-so. "I am no savage!" she declared, "I am _Far Dareis Mai!_ " She drew herself up proudly.

"You may carry a _spear_ ," Ysmet drawled, revealing a passing knowledge of the Old Tongue, "but you are evidently no _maiden!_ " She showed her teeth in a smile that could in no way be termed friendly.

Manda's lip curled. "Provoke me further, soft Wetland Noblewench, and you shall become fully acquainted with that spear you made mention of!" she snarled, tucking away her bow and producing the weapon in question, brandishing it warningly.

Ysmet scowled darkly, grip tightening upon the hilt of her slim blade. She opened her mouth to utter a threat of her own, but Rashiel interrupted, exasperated; "cease this foolishness, the both of you!" She pinned Manda with a commanding gaze. "Ysmet meant no disrespect, Manda, and besides, I do not believe that there are currently _any_ maidens present, in _that_ sense of the word!" She winked at Dagnon, who blushed. "Now, have you and the other Shaido managed to find _Roth?_ "

Manda shook her head, gave Ysmet a poisonous glare, then muttered; "no, Aes Sedai, we did not see the… _handsome_ Gleeman." Ysmet scowled. Manda casually continued; "It would seem that Roth Blucha has been made captive by Madmen, the ones who wear the smirking masks of red leather… they have taken him away from this place."

" _What?_ " Ysmet angrily shouted.

Manda ignored the Noblewoman, continuing; "Chassin reports that they are the very same masked _Souvraniene_ who dishonourably made hostages of the Aes Sedai, this tattoo-faced Sharawoman also."

"But why would the Madmen kidnap Roth?" Ysmet demanded, whilst Rashiel considered this surprising new development, her mind working furiously.

Manda shrugged. "Who can say? It seems a strange thing to do, but then, the mad are noted for their strangeness, so such mysterious behaviour is to be expected." She smiled slyly. "Or mayhap, the pretty Gleeman went with the Redmasks willingly, seeking a welcome respite from his scolding wife?!"

Ysmet made a hissing sound; Rashiel was unsure if it more resembled the noise of angry cat or boiling kettle… perhaps a little of both? With some sort of menacing snake thrown in?

"Slut!" Ysmet yelled, when she found her voice, "Roth would _never_ leave me!" The Warders all flinched slightly, then rolled their eyes at each other.

Manda took a deep breath, full lips parting to deliver verbal retaliation, presumably to be followed by retribution of a more physical kind… but again, to the relief of the Gaidin, Rashiel intervened. "Stop this nonsense immediately! Honestly, a pair of grown women behaving like witless _men!_ " The Warders eyed Rashiel flatly, though she failed to notice. "Manda?"

"Aes Sedai?" Manda's voice was somewhat sulky, but at least she lowered her wickedly sharp spearpoint and took her threatening gaze from Ysmet, gazing with a trace of respect upon Rashiel instead.

"Where are the other Aiel?" Rashiel enquired, "the Aiel _men_ , that is…"

Manda jerked a thumb back in the direction of the forest, where serried ranks of tall trees marched south, deep shadows lurking beneath their twisted boughs. "Gerom and Chassin, and our swinish leader Cohradin, have gone to wake the Redmasks and then return with Roth Blucha…" her cold eyes flicked briefly toward Ysmet, "…assuming that he _wishes_ rescue..?" Ysmet glared, took a deep breath, but then released it bereft of further harsh words, refusing to rise to the bait. "The foolish _Sovin Nai_ follow the trail of the Madmen southwards," Manda added in bored tones, "they sent me back to tell you of their intent, and also because I am _not_ a stupid Knife Hand…" she sneered, "they claim that redeeming the foolish (yet comely) Gleeman from captivity is a matter of honour for their Warrior Society alone and that _ji'e'toh_ forbids _Far Dareis Mai_ from participating." Manda shrugged. "I care not."

Rashiel raised her dark eyebrows. "Hold on… why in the Wheel would Cohradin and the others feel compelled to find Roth and save him from the _Souvraniene?_ "

"I told you, Aes Sedai, they are _stupid!_ " Manda laughed softly. "The _Sovin Nai_ of Wet Sands think themselves responsible for the Gleeman. It was they who first discovered him at the edge of Sightblinder's Blight, a few years ago, whilst venturing on one of Cohradin's ridiculous Worm-hunts… the hairy fools see it as their duty to protect Roth Blucha from harm, much as one would succour a helpless child or witless imbecile or an utter-"

"Hoy!" Ysmet shouted, "speak not so insultingly of my beloved Songbird lest I make you _eat_ that spear, hussy!"

Manda regarded the Noblewoman with a dangerous calm, that presaged imminent violence. "You are welcome to _try_ , prissy Wetlander waif, but should you fail in your intent, I shall take that honourless sword from your puny grasp and repeatedly _slap_ your flat behind with it!"

"I'd like to see you _try_ and my bottom is _not_ flat, curse-you, it is well-rounded!"

"Hah! Even the level sand-scarp of the barren Termool claims more curves than _your_ bony backside!"

" _Wanton cow!_ "

" _Prudish she-goat!_ "

Rashiel sighed, pressing a hand firmly over her eyes. She could feel a head-ache coming on… but then, something occurred to her, a factor that appeared to be missing from the equation… "Wait!" Altaran Noblewoman and Shaido Spear-Maiden ceased their invective long enough to turn and glare at the Aes Sedai. Rashiel glowered back at Ysmet, then turned to Manda commandingly. "You say that just the three Aielmen have gone to find Roth?"

"Yes, Aes Sedai, the idiotic Knife Hands alone. Mayhap they have caught up to both Gleeman and Madmen by now? Though Chassin thought the trail cold."

"But what of the Shieldman?" Rashiel urged, "he who you call 'Nightwatcher?' Could not he have participated in this rescue mission also?"

Manda looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment, before resuming her stoic Aiel disposition. "No. _Vron'cor_ did not accompany _Sovin Nai_." She seemed unwilling to say more.

Ysmet stared at the Spear-Maiden suspiciously. "I have not seen Naythan Gaidin since last night." Silence. "Where may he be?" Manda stared back, defiantly. "Answer me!"

"The Nightwatcher bade us to not tell until you asked…" Manda muttered.

"I _am_ asking!" Ysmet angrily pointed-out. " _Well?_ "

Manda scowled. " _Vron'cor_ has gone. He left at dawn."

"Why?" Rashiel demanded, adding as an afterthought; "and where?"

Manda answered reluctantly; "the Nightwatcher goes to meet with this first-sister of his, she who Cohradin claims has the aspect of a fox, though that one-eyed pig is probably lying, as he most usually does. _Vron'cor_ was bade to do so. He journeys to the Treebrother Stedding where I earlier encountered the objectionable Seanchan assassin and her wolfish lover, the gold-eyed girl who it was brought the Nightwatcher this message from his close-kin… one 'Feir,' likely also fashioned of clay and brought to life by the Creator, though for what purpose, I know not."

"So..?"

" _Vron'cor_ obeys the bidding of this 'Fox Queen' to seek her out, and thence travels to the ruined Age of Legends city, wherein the Aes Sedai are held hostage."

"Larcheen!"

"Yes, Aes Sedai… the very place that the eagle spoke of."

Rashiel shook her head firmly. "It did not speak, it _wrote_ … and in any case, that was not exactly the _eagle_ , it was _Renn!_ "

"As you say, Rashiel Tamor. I do not know since I was not there, but otherwise engaged making love to the boatswain. Cohradin told me that the eagle spoke only to _him_ … whispering many secrets into his ear… _more_ lies! He has no honour! Even so, for a _bird_ to scribe a missive… how could it even hold the quill? In its beak? Or did it grip it by the-"

"The eagle wasn't writing a burning _novel_ , it scratched a single flaming word in the sand with a _twig!_ " Rashiel shouted, exasperated.

Manda raised her eyebrows. "Indeed? But even so… an unusual thing for it to do, I would that I had been there to see. And all at the behest of a Sister of the White Tower? Truly, the ways of Aes Sedai are passing strange."

"The ways of _Aiel_ are pretty bloody odd too, if you ask me!" Rashiel responded belligerently, then considered awhile… "So, the Aielmen have gone to free Roth, the Shieldman is off to see his scary sister who looks a bit like a fox… and presumably, he also intends to help the Ogier in defence of their _stedding_ , alongside that rude wolf-maid and whoever this assassin person is…" she turned to Ysmet. "We seem to be losing our allies rather rapidly."

Ysmet scowled. "Why did Naythan Gaidin not just _inform_ me of his intentions?" she coldly queried Manda.

The Maiden of the Spear sneered slightly. "He speculated that you might be angered by his leaving and not voyaging down to this 'Larcheen' aboard your new boat, Ysmet Mitsobar."

" _Ship!_ "

"Whichever."

Ysmet frowned. "Well, the Shieldman was _wrong_ , actually. I am _not_ angry at his sneaking off in the early hours without my permission, thus deserting our cause…" she scowled darkly, "…I am _furious!_ "

Rashiel patted her Noblewoman friend comfortingly on the shoulder. "Well… _'tis pointless to fret when fish scorn the net!_ "

"Huh!" was Ysmet's less-than-effusive rejoinder to this old Ebou Dari saying. She glanced around herself, eyes passing over the smirking Aielwoman without troubling to pause, past the watchful Warders who were making but a poor job of pretending to not be shamelessly eavesdropping upon the proceedings, her gaze moving back toward the shore and the ship anchored in the deep water beyond…

 _we really should come up with a name for our new-won vessel,_ Rashiel silently considered, as she followed the direction of Ysmet's eyes. This had proved a problem. It was not that there weren't more than enough suggestions for something to call the craft… the difficulty was actually that there were _too many._ Everyone had different ideas concerning a name for the captured Soarer, but none agreed with each other's choice. No consensus had yet been reached, or even approached… For her own part, Rashiel favoured ' _Wavedancer_ ' but Jabal Gaidin had informed her that there was already a Clan Takana Raker with that particular nomenclature. In Ebou Dar, as well as amongst the _Atha'an Miere_ , it was considered bad luck to have two ships with the same name. It should ideally be something original, though nothing _too_ unique, and certainly _not_ Gen's ridiculous suggestion… whoever heard of a vessel called ' _The Wind Cheeser_ ' for the Dragon's sakes?!

Rashiel blinked. _come to think of it, where…?_ Her considerations were interrupted when the Bosun's odd, three-cornered hat and then his head appeared over a steep dune, followed by the rest of him as he paced up from the beach to join them. The annoying talking-bird with its colourful plumage was now perched upon a broad shoulder; the big Tairen sailor seemed to have inherited it from its former owner, the late but unlamented Captain of the Shadowsworn brigands whom they had fought and defeated. The Bosun advanced steadily in their direction, his sole hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass as dark eyes warily scanned the treeline for dangers.

"Ahoy, sailorman!" Manda called, and enthusiastically waved her spear at the strapping fellow; the Bosun briefly grinned, gold teeth flashing in his dark face, before returning the gesture of greeting with his iron hook.

"I would imagine that you might have to be rather careful of that hook whilst in bed," Rashiel murmured to Manda, "it looks somewhat sharp."

Manda grinned salaciously. "Oh, it is, Rashiel Tamor… in truth, I make the handsome fellow undo the straps and take it off before we engage in congress."

Rashiel's ripe lips made a moue, whilst Ysmet glared at them both, shaking her head disapprovingly. But then, the Ebou Dari Noblewoman's gaze returned to the nameless ship, moored out beyond the breakers. Her brow was slightly furrowed. She raised a hand, shielding her light-brown eyes from the sun, squinting across the waves at the vessel, apparently searching for someone upon its deck. "What is wrong?" Rashiel enquired, "apart from the obvious, that is…"

Ysmet's expression cleared, eyes widening and her raised arm dropped to her side. "Wait! It is not just Naythan Gaidin and the Aielmen missing…" she turned to Rashiel, evincing annoyance and concern, "…why, I haven't seen the crazed little lecher since yesterday eve either!"

Realisation struck Rashiel. "Of course! Where in the Winds is _Gen?_ "

* * *

N'aethan paused his stealthy, stalking progress through the Ghost Forest for a moment to cautiously sniff the air… but the person creeping along right behind did not, and promptly walked into him. _Again!_ The Lightborn whirled around, baring his pointy teeth in a silent snarl. "Damn your eyes, watch where you are treading!" he angrily hissed.

Gen rubbed his grimy hands together and made nervous, bobbing movements. "Which I do apologise for my clumsomeness, King o' the Cats!" he whined, and began to bend his knees and undulate his skinny shape.

N'aethan scowled, pupils shrinking to slits. "Stop doing that!" he snapped.

"What be I a-doing that offends thee, my Cat King?"

Exasperated, N'aethan whispered intently; "I am _not_ a King, especially not _your_ King and cease mentioning the ' _C_ ' word directly!"

"What, _cat?_ "

"Yes, _that!_ "

"Forgiveness," Gen mumbled, whilst continuing his odd, writhing motions.

N'aethan growled softly. "I _told_ you to cut that nonsense out!" he snarled.

Gen blinked. "I do be confused-" he began to say.

" _Clearly!_ "

"To which do you object, King Cat?"

"Aargh! That grovelling thing you keep doing, dimbulb! Curb your damned _fawning!_ "

Gen cocked his head to one side, rheumy eyes widening in his shrivelled and sun-blasted face. His wrinkly brow, besmirched with crude and faded tattoos, furrowed. His mouth dropped open, revealing a few remaining yellowed teeth, filed into worn points. " _Spawning?!_ " Gen croaked, before adding in scandalised tones; "which I does never spawn! I do no be a _frog!_ "

N'aethan blinked. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slower. " _Fawning,_ " he stated, distinctly, " _not_ spawning."

Gen's confusion dissipated, at least as much as it ever did. "Ohh…" he breathed, "which I did think you did say-"

"Yes. Be silent." N'aethan considered. "Hmm… you seem to have difficulty hearing my words, fruitcake. A blockage of the inner-ear? Possibly a good, hard slap to the side of the skull will cure you of this malady?"

"It may do!" Gen agreed, with keen interest.

N'aethan sighed. "That was supposed to be a warning," he muttered.

"I do no longer be _fawning!_ "

" _Tsag!_ " N'aethan turned and stomped away, very much hoping that the irritating old maniac would not follow… but of course, he did. The Lightborn's keen ears could clearly detect Gen shuffling along behind. "I still do not see why you had to come with me," he grumbled, "you'll slow me down…" _or drive me as mad as you evidently are!_ he added privately.

"Never fear, 'tis not far, my Catprince!" Gen wheezed reassuringly.

N'aethan glared over a broad shoulder; Gen was not looking at him but glancing vaguely about, quite obviously seeking something. A cottage made of gingerbread, possibly? " _Catprince?_ " N'aethan repeated. No answer. "That is not even a _word_ , it is but two nouns which you have clumsily stuck together, one of which I thought I _told_ you not to use!"

"What, _Prince?_ "

"No, cheesebrain, the _other_ one! I told you just now, do you not recall? I quite distinctly said-"

Gen halted, and raised a gnarled finger to his cracked lips. "Shush!"

N'aethan became even more incensed. "Don't you _shush_ me, oddball! _I'll_ do the shushing around here, if you don't-" He blinked, recollecting. "Hold! _What_ is not far?" the annoyed Lightborn suspiciously enquired.

Gen grinned gappily. "The river isn't, your Feline Highness… which I can hear it a-rushing and a-gushing!"

N'aethan nodded impatiently, pointing a dark claw ahead of them. He had removed his gloves earlier, in the hopes that the sight of his fearsome finger-blades of Power-melded keratin would deter Gen from accompanying him. This tactic had failed miserably, since the elderly castaway found the Lightborn's claws fascinating and kept asking obscure questions about them, until he finally ran-out of peculiar queries… "Yes, there is running water down that way, I have been noticing it awhile now. So what?"

Gen smiled what he presumably thought was a mysterious smile, though the sharpness of his sporadic fangs rendered the expression macabre. "Wait and see, O Regal Ruler of Catkind!" And with this, Gen scuttled past N'aethan, weaving through the stands of slim saplings that lined a downhill slope beyond, heading for the unmistakeable sound of a river in full-flow. N'aethan glared after the peculiar old man, considered taking an alternate route, or perhaps fleeing wildly into the forest while he had the chance to be rid of his crazed companion, but curiosity got the better of him. It usually did. The Lightborn sighed again, then soundlessly followed Gen, slipping between the slender trunks. There seemed little other option, for the time being…

Before long, N'aethan and Gen stood amongst thick bulrushes, up to their knees in swirling water at the edge of a wide, fast-flowing river. Gen was holding a thick, damp mat of woven grasses with which he had been concealing something, moored amongst the reeds, hidden in the shallows. N'aethan stared at the floating object with a mixture of boredom and mild confusion. "What is it?" the Lightborn idly wondered.

"Which it do be a boat!" Gen promptly answered, gazing with affectionate pride upon the round thing bobbing in the water.

"I do not believe that I have ever seen a... a _boat_ like that," N'aethan commented, adding; "and I certainly hope never to again!"

Gen blinked at the Lightborn annoyingly. "Why not?" he whined, "what be wrong with it, Crowned Cat?"

"It is _round!_ Completely circular, lacking both bow and stern!"

It was true. The small craft consisted of bent planks of some thin, flexible wood, reinforced and waterproofed with what looked like an entire tanned animal hide, stretched about the curvature of the flimsy hull. A crudely carved paddle lay within, half-hidden beneath a rough bench which bisected the ridiculous spherical boat.

"Tis a _coracle!_ " Gen revealed, with unwarranted enthusiasm.

"Tis a piece of _choss!_ " N'aethan rudely responded.

"Huh!" huhed Gen in offended fashion as he clambered awkwardly into the absurd vessel, moving with spry assurance despite his age, whatever that was.

"Well, I thank you for showing me your silly round boat… I suppose… I cannot say that I am particularly surprised that _you_ would own such an absurd craft, moonbeam!" N'aethan turned, shaking his head wearily, and began to wade back to the bank. "But now I must be on my way now. Farewell, Gen. See you in the funny-holos!"

" _Wait_ , King o' the Cats!"

Against his better judgement, N'aethan glanced back to look. Gen was perched on the plank, flapping his hands about and grimacing. N'aethan groaned softly. "I have far to go and little time to waste," the Lightborn painstakingly explained, "though uncertain as to why you decided to follow me into the forest – despite being repeatedly told _not to_ – and even less certain why you insisted on showing me your stupid circular drowning-facilitator, nonetheless, my patience is at an end." N'aethan bared his sharp teeth, pupils narrowing dangerously into slits. "Here is where our paths diverge, addled-one! Nod your head if you understand… and kindly do not _say_ anyth-"

"But Majestic Emperor of Cattendom! You must-"

" _Cattendom?_ Where… _what?_ " N'aethan could only move his lips soundlessly, quite literally lost for words…

"You must come along o' me!"

N'aethan blinked, took a moment to decipher this as well as he could, then muttered; "you wish me to accompany you?"

"Aye… 'tis what I did say, ain't it?"

N'aethan shrugged his broad shoulders. "Not exactly… uh… _why?_ "

"Because-"

"So that you can continue to torment me with your nonsensical speech and gibbering idiocy?!"

"Not lest you wants me to, but-"

"I mean, _really_ … 'Cattendom?!' Where _is_ that? Just down the road from Piggington?! Over the way, near Doggendon?" Gen gaped annoyingly. "What exact bizarre plane of existence did you originate upon, anyway, lunatic? Please tell me, so I can _avoid_ it!" Gen tried to speak, but N'aethan was in full-flow, giving vent to his frustration… he moved on to the prosecution-stage; "you're trying to drive me mad, aren't you? Go on, admit it, I won't mind as long as you're honest about your devious intentions… you want me to end up as insane as _you_ , so we can sit in padded-cells next to each other and talk about what the Man in the Moon had for breakfast, and whether or not it is raining _fish_ again today!" N'aethan pointed an accusing claw; " _that's_ why you want me to go with you in your special toy boat, so that you can render me as big a maniac as _you_ clearly are!" N'aethan finally ran out of breath.

Gen shook his head vehemently. "Nay! You must come along o' me in cause your sisterkin, Queen o' the Foxes, will _no_ be awaiting you at yon _stedding_ where your paws do tread to, Mog Majesty!"

"Don't call me a mog, I am _not_ a mog…" N'aethan scowled, pupils slitting. "And they're _feet_ , damn-it, not… what you said… oh, never mind!" The Lightborn clutched his brow, shaking his head from side to side, moaning softly. Then he looked up, staring at Gen searchingly. "What in the Light makes you imagine that the Fourthborn won't be at Stedding Dashai?"

Gen opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. His eyes shifted about nervously. He scooped the paddle up from where it lay at his feet and began to fiddle with it in an annoying way.

N'aethan made a deep growling sound in the back of his throat, a noise of pure impatience… and mounting rage. "Lord Whitecloak told me that my sister said she would watch for me at the _stedding_ …" N'aethan frowned, worried. He was eager to meet Feir, to know that he was no longer the Last Lightborn, that there was another of his rare kind alive in the world… but he was a touch wary, also. What would she be like? From what little he had been told, she sounded formidable… and then, there was the disturbing matter of her _companion_ , of course. The _Gholam?!_ Light, what had Father been _thinking_ of? Gen was still aggravatingly fidgeting with the wooden paddle. N'aethan eyed him suspiciously. "How can you possibly know that this 'Fox Queen' of yours will not be at Stedding Dashai?"

Gen reluctantly raised his confused gaze. "Because I _seen_ it!" he whispered.

"You… saw it?" Gen nodded reluctantly. "Where?"

"In… in my _head!_ " Gen muttered, "The night afore last, I did see a vision of her Highness, Queen of Foxes… and she were _not_ amongst the Treebrothers, but deep within ancient Larcheen, a-held captured by the enemy!"

N'aethan scowled. "And you saw all of this… inside your head..?"

"Aye, King Cat!" Gen nodded again, fervently this time.

N'aethan began to wade back to the ridiculous round boat, holding out a hand. "Pass me that paddle, would you, nutjob?!"

Gen grinned, expressing relief. "You did change your mind, Cat King? You wish to row in my fine _coracle?_ " He began to hand the heavy implement over to N'aethan.

"No, I won't be doing any actual paddling, snowball… you see, I intend to _hit_ you with it!"

Gen's wrinkly face fell and he hastily withdrew the paddle, his gnarled fingers tightening upon the wooden handle. "Don't you believe me?" he whinged.

N'aethan scowled. "What, about you having odd visions in your mind? Actually, yes, I find _that_ entirely plausible, you irrational loon, I expect that you see things that aren't there and hear voices in your head telling you to do strange stuff also… but oddly enough, I have no intention of organising my plans and movements according to your manic delusions and hallucinations!"

Gen frowned. "Which I used to be a Madman," he revealed.

"Used to be? You still _are!_ "

Gen shook his head vehemently. "Nay, fearsome King of Catkind! I mean I were _Souvraniene_ , one of the Laughing God's men as wore the masks of red…"

"I _know_ this. This is something that I know."

"How-?"

"The Shaidos told me."

Gen evinced even more confusion than was usual. "Who are the _shy-dows?_ " he wondered.

"The _Aiel!_ The bloody Da'shain, spoonfed!"

"Alright! It be not needsome to shout, Royal Cat, I do no be deaf…"

N'aethan leaned threateningly over the side of the _coracle_ while Gen shrank away from him. "I thought we had established that you _were_ ," he hissed.

"What? Speak-up, King o' the-"

"Call me by that stupid title but _once_ more and I shall render you unfit for human consumption, even by the low culinary standards of _this_ debased and uncivilised land! Now… are you actually claiming that you can Prophecy?"

" _Prof..?_ What do that be?"

" _Foretell!_ Seeing into the future, you unutterable loony!"

Gen's bemused expression cleared and he nodded. "Which I always did have my visions, back when I could channel the _saidin_ , but even after I did burn myself out at the Everstone, when I did forever lose my accursed powers, the second-sight yet remained, it did still come to me from time-to-time…" Gen drew himself up importantly. "Tis never wrong, that which I do see of happenings yet to… to…"

" _Happen?_ "

"Aye, _that!_ Why, I did know as was coming the very storm that took our good ship, _Queen Mab_ , and cast her upon the reef of sharpsome corals… but when I did try to warn the sumptuous Captain Ysmet, she did grow angered at my tales of troublesome winds and did throw her boots at me!"

N'aethan nodded sagely, trying to ignore the sense of unreality in the air. "Yes, she clearly has a bit of temper, that one…" he absently agreed, before recalling the issue under discussion. His eyes narrowed. "So… you claim to have seen one of your Foretellings, of my sister, Feir-called-Fourthborn, held hostage in Larcheen?"

Gen nodded dolefully. "Tis all aright, Prince Puss! It has no happened yet, but it do stand truthsome even so! What will be, will be…"

N'aethan frowned darkly. "Why should I believe you?" he demanded. Gen eyed him solemnly, evidently mulling it over. "Prove to me that you can Foretell and perhaps I'll come with you in your silly boat, for all that I find your company enormously aggravating! _Well?_ "

Gen's eyes widened as something occurred to him, presumably something of import. "In course! Which I did once see a vision of _you,_ Majestic Mog!"

"Don't call me a-"

"A time ago… back in Illian, it were, the night afore we shipped out…"

N'aethan sighed. "Describe this viewing."

Gen obeyed with enthusiasm; "which you was a-standing in a darksome wood, a-talking to a young fellow who you did earlier bind to a tree. Whyfore you did do this, I know not… funny clothes he did wear, the youth, all bright colours, like every manner of paint were spilled on 'em… his hair were reddish and his eyes full-blue…"

N'aethan frowned, unwilling to believe in the veracity of the vision, but finding himself beginning to do so anyway. "This individual in the loud garments… what was he _doing?_ " the Lightborn reluctantly asked.

"He were a-singing!"

N'aethan scowled, on the verge of accepting that Gen _could_ Prophecy, much as he did not wish to. Still… he had to ask; "the song… what was it about?"

Gen grinned. "Willow trees! And the breeze in 'em… I think it were called; ' _the wind as breaks the willows..?_ '"

N'aethan sighed gloomily. "Close enough," he growled with ill-grace, and against his better judgement, slipped into the _coracle._ The small, round boat tipped alarmingly at the increased weight and settled lower in the water, but unfortunately, did not sink. "I really hope that no-one I _know_ sees me sitting in this thing…" he muttered, shaking his head.

Gen was not listening. "Aye, the vision… 'twas how I knowed you when we did meet, Thirdborn Cat," he confided, using the paddle to shove them away from the bank and out into deeper water. "For all that I did also see your picture that the Fox Queen did let me look upon, long ago, but you be much changed since then."

"Time has that effect on us all, even me," N'aethan observed, "even those who touch the Source." He settled himself in the bottom of the boat, leaning uncomfortably against the thin planks, watching Gen, up on the bench. "How _old_ are you anyway?"

"I do no remember."

Bobbing and spinning, the _coracle_ drifted out into the centre of the river, carried rapidly downstream. Gen used the paddle, albeit without much skill, to gradually bring the craft under some semblance of control.

"What is this river called?" N'aethan wondered.

Gen shrugged. "It do no have a name, leastwise not one that I do know, but twill bring us out into the big bay, a dozen leagues to the north o' Larcheen…" He sighed wistfully. "Good it will be, to see the old place again, afore I die…"

"Don't be morbid."

"Which I am not, King o' the Cats! But I did see the manner of my death, long ago, back when I were a young lad, newly come into the cursed Power… whilst a-sleeping, I saw my own self die. Now _that_ , I have never forgot."

Silence reigned for a time, punctuated only by the sound of water splashing against the boat's side. Much as N'aethan was enjoying the absence of Gen's cracked voice with its strange accent and bizarre cadences, he had to wonder…

"Gen?"

"Yes, O Proud Prince of Pusscats?"

"Gah! Now _that_ one, I _really_ dislike!" N'aethan took a deep, calming breath, something that he seemed to be doing a great deal, recently. The reason why was sitting on the bench opposite, staring at him expectantly. "Gen… since we appear to have idle time on our hands, we should pass it with the telling of stories, a traditional activity for travellers to engage in. You go first." N'aethan leaned forward, feral eyes drilling into Gen's. "I wish for you to relate to me _everything_ that you know about my Sister's _Gholam_."

* * *

 **Act Two** _ **: Stories**_

" _…and so, as the monstrous sea-beast slipped beneath the turgid waves, malevolent eyes glaring and fearsome fangs gnashing, I crept stealthily from my hiding-place behind the biscuit barrel and closely observed the gargantuan aquatic creature sounding from sight, back unto the midnight oceanic depths from whence it had so startlingly emerged previous, returning to the unknowable watery realms wherein such gigantic abominations of nature are presumably spawned… I gasped in wonder and amaze, preparing to summon my shipmates that they eke might come and gaze in awe upon the enormous shadow falling away into the mysterious fathoms lurking beneath our barnacle-ridden hull… down it sank, down, down, mayhap some twenty-thousand leagues under the_ -"

"There's no such things as sea-serpents."

Roth Blucha's mouth snapped shut and he glared at the rude member of his audience who had interjected at so inappropriate a moment in the story. There was much in life that Roth detested; long nautical voyages, hard work, angry husbands, obstreperous Innkeeps, the dwarfish popinjay Lord Wakime, _Bards_ … but over and above these and many another irritation, he _truly_ hated having his tales interrupted by ignorant louts! "There _are_ sea-monsters and I have _seen_ one!" Roth vehemently protested.

The interrupter was the Madman, Hummer. _Again_. "What colour was it?" he vaguely wondered, staring fixatedly at the air above Roth's head, though there was nothing whatsoever to look upon up there...

" _What?_ "

"The sea-serpent… you said it was scary and had big teeth… but you never said what hue it might be. So..?"

"It was _green_ , curse you!" Roth snarled, adding; "a sort of emerald green, if you _must_ know, with scintillating blue bits on its back and tail, and… and its eyes were _crimson!_ "

"Oh…" Hummer blinked slowly, assimilating these details, then grinned a gap-toothed grin. The squat _Souvraniene_ really was an alarmingly ugly specimen; flat of face and nose, heavily freckled, greasy ginger locks framing these unappealing features, with coarse black hairs sprouting from his jug-ears… Roth fervently wished that the peculiar fellow would put his macabre laughing mask back on. But all of the Madmen had removed these red leathern guises once they left the ground. Roth gulped. He was trying very hard _not_ to think about _that_.

"May I _please_ continue?" Roth icily enquired.

"Whuh?" grunted Hummer, raising his thick, gingery brows.

"Proceed, Outlander… _do_ resume your fanciful account," sneered Flauter, who Roth had long-since decided was by far the most sarcastic of his new and unasked-for companions… his _captors_.

"Why, thank-you so very much indeed!" Roth irately responded, then took a deep breath, his eyes glazing over a little. Any turnip-headed dullard could spin a yarn or two, but relating a story properly required skill, wit and a certain detachment, removing oneself from the here and now, casting one's mind back to the past… in this case; many moons ago, halfway through their interminable voyage down to the distant south. The very dawning day when Roth had arisen early one humid morn and gone up on deck to find both of the sailors with watch-duty fast asleep – a flogging offence! He had then beheld, with his own disbelieving eyes, a massive and terrifying–

"Did anyone _else_ see the monster?" Harper gruffly enquired, his dark, flinty gaze filled with suspicion.

Roth scowled. _Another_ bloody interruption! Even though he had not exactly resumed his tale yet, he had flaming-well been _about_ to! So it still counted! Were it not for the fact that his present public was composed of extremely dangerous and partially-deranged male-channelers, potential psychotics to a man, any one of whom might suddenly decided to _explode_ him for no apparent reason… why, the furious Gleeman might have quite lost his temper and _roared_ at them! _Ragefully!_

" _Yes_ , since you _ask_ , Gen beheld the monstrous creature also," Roth answered coldly, "he was sleeping amidst a coil of big ropes 'pon the foredeck, I noticed him afterwards… he had his fingers over his eyes but was peeking through them." Roth's tones became resentful; "but even though he beheld the sea-monster also, he would _not_ support my interesting report of its appearance with witness testimony, for he is a coward and a lunatic!"

Harper stared at Roth in silence for a long moment, while the young Gleeman repressed the urge to fidget nervously. " _What_ did you say this fellow was called?"

" _Gen_. I don't think he has any other names…"

The Madmen looked at each other inscrutably. "And who is this 'Gen' to you, Outlander?" Harper eventually enquired, his deep voice devoid of inflection, "please to speak further, concerning this man."

Roth sighed softly. He had a feeling that his tale was done, whether he liked it or not… he had quite lost the thread and besides, these interrupting tattooed thugs who wielded the One Power clearly did not believe in the existence of sea-monsters any more than the crew of the _Queen Mab_ had! The response of Roth's shipmates to his excited description of the vast water-borne organism had veered from contemptuous amusement via open derision to pure anger at being loudly and untimely awoken, then required to stare at a patch of dark and now-empty ocean.

"Gen is one of the castaways from my wrecked ship," Roth wearily explained, "a spry old fellow with tattoos not unlike your own, though much faded by the ravages of time. He has led a hard life, I would expect. Oh, and he isn't quite right in the head, a bit like…" Roth's wary gaze moved to Hummer, who had begun the monotonous droning sound again, his muddy eyes unfocused, stubby fingers making fluttering motions before him… the Gleeman elected to not finish the sentence, for fear of causing offence. And then being made to explode. "Well, anyway," Roth hastily continued, "Gen was supposed to be our Guide, since he lays claim to being a native of this horrid land, but proved completely bloody useless!" Roth thought about it some more, then added as an afterthought; "oh, and he is obsessed with cheese."

"Cheese?" Flauter repeated, raising a narrow, pale eyebrow.

"Yes. Can't get enough of the stuff. Babbles about it constantly, even in his sleep. Most annoying."

Flauter lowered the thin brow. Everything about him was thin, in fact; his face, body, limbs, a tall and gaunt specimen, probably not much use with a sword… but then, he did not _need_ to be. Flauter was, like the rest of these red-masked, torc-wearing fiends, a powerful and deadly channeler of tainted _saidin_ , who might go completely insane at any moment and begin to explode things… a certain talented Gleeman most particularly!

 _how in the pestilential Pit do I get myself into these dreadful situations?_ Roth gloomily wondered to himself, and not for the first time. He sighed again, louder on this occasion, leaning back against the uncomfortable withies forming the woven hull, the thin wicker shell of… of whatever this thing was that he currently and so reluctantly travelled in.

" _Gen_ …" Harper growled, exchanging a meaningful glance with his cadaverous comrade, seated opposite.

"So he came back, did he?" Flauter muttered thoughtfully, in response. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Funny… I didn't _think_ he was dead, it would take another Breaking to kill _that_ one, but even so…" Flauter trailed-off, frowning.

Roth was unsure what the significance of these words exactly was, and did not much care in any case. He had _himself_ to worry about, not some drooling, gibbering, cheese-stuffing loon!

Harper's dark-eyed gaze, emerging from beneath a heavy brow set in his broad, strong-jawed face, moved to the ornate gilt article that Roth held. "Mind if I try that out?" he rumbled.

Roth blinked. The red-masked male-channelers who took him prisoner had showed little compunction when it came to confiscating his precious Pipe- _ter'angreal_ and trusty poignard – he did not expect to see either again – but had let him keep his prized harp. Much as he did not like to release it from his possession or allow others to so much as touch the strings, Roth couldn't see how he might readily refuse, without causing offence… which with Harper especially, he really had _no_ wish to do. So, the young Gleeman reluctantly passed the musical instrument over to its namesake, the grim and formidable leader of this mob of Madmen. The burly _Souvraniene_ took the harp gently, ran thick fingers over the strings with surprising delicacy, then deftly began to tune it.

Roth observed, concern vying with confusion. Odd indeed, that Harper had requested the instrument, rather than just taking it… for ruthless and unstable Madmen, his captors had shown surprising vestiges of mannerly behaviour, on the whole. They all seemed to be speaking the Vulgar out of consideration for their prisoner, though Flauter had earlier expressed snide amusement at Roth's attempts to communicate with them in the High Chant, so perhaps it was simply that they did not wish to encourage his eccentric and difficult-to-decipher speech?

A young Madman sitting crosslegged opposite Roth leaned forward; a slim youth with extremely pale eyes which he never seemed to blink. His name was 'Crooner' apparently. "That word you spake perforce, as unto depicting the hulksome fish…" Crooner quietly queried, in mellifluous tones, " _skintillating…_ wherefore of a meaning doth it lay claim to?"

Roth's brow furrowed. Crooner's command of the Vulgar speech seemed every bit as archaic as his own of the Old Tongue! " _Scintillating_ ," he corrected pedantically, before revealing; "it means… um… shiny?" Roth frowned. "And it were no _fish_ , it was a… a veritable _monster!_ "

"A serpent of the seas?" Flauter drawled, with a sardonic smile.

Roth vigorously shook his head. "Why no, not at all… 'twas no mere _snake_ , for it quite clearly had _limbs!_ Big ones!"

Flauter snorted derisively. The bulky, fair-haired fellow kneeling beside him leaned closer and, behind a cupped hand, whispered into his ear awhile. Flauter cocked his head, hearkening, then grinned. "Whisperer wants to know; what was the point of saying 'scintillating?' Why did you not just say 'shiny' in the first place?"

Roth scowled. "Scintillating _sounds_ better!" he stated, with offended dignity.

"Well," grunted Harper, "it would seem that you possess a certain talent for describing things, Outlander… even when those things do not _exist!_ "

Roth glared at the doubting Madman, opening his mouth to righteously insist upon the veracity of his account… but then, Harper raised the gilt instrument that he had finished tuning, and began to play. Rapidly, the burly _Souvraniene_ plucked ringing chords and stroked resonant scales from the borrowed harp, evincing the skill and dexterity of a Master Musician. Roth gaped in astonishment. Harper was _good_ … _very_ good. Better than _him_ , in fact! The other Madmen fell silent, listening as intently as the young Gleeman to the melancholic melody that Harper wove from the taut strings, powerful fingers moving swiftly up and down, flashing nimbly with the assurance of long-practice.

Roth closed his mouth, shut his eyes, losing himself in the bittersweet music, temporarily forgetting his troubles. Finally, the plaintive sounds faded into silence, but for the rushing of wind, the creak of wood on wood. Roth opened his eyes. Harper sat still, the gilded harp resting quiescent upon his lap, a distant gaze fixed upon nothing in particular.

"That…" Roth began to say hesitantly, before collecting himself, "… _that_ was an interesting tune you played… not bad… not bad at all…" his brow furrowed. "Though I did not quite recognise the piece?"

Harper blinked slowly, returning to his senses, then eyed Roth neutrally. "No. You would not ken this… 'twas mine own composition."

Roth raised his eyebrows in mild disbelief. Surprising indeed, that this big, brutish fellow could write and play music with such… _soul!_ Harper glanced down at the instrument as though wondering what it was, then passed the gold-chased harp back to Roth, who took it with a combination of relief at it not having been exploded, and professional jealousy that so fine and moving an air had been teased from the strings by fingers other than his own!

"What was the ballad called?" Roth wondered absently.

Harper shrugged his broad shoulders. " _A Lament for Donyela_ ," he answered.

"Donyela?" Roth repeated, "I do not believe I know the name? Not from any of the legends with which I am conversant, at least…"

Harper snorted dismissively. "Of course not. Why would you? Donyela was _real_ , and no mere myth. She was my woman. She died many years ago… I barely recall how many. Even the remembrance of her beauty is lost to me, now…"

"Oh…" Roth clutched his golden harp a little tighter. "I am sorry."

"Why?" Harper stared at Roth stonily. "You never knew her."

Roth proceeded cautiously. "Even so, I ask forgiveness for provoking so sensitive a recollection…" Harper continued to gaze upon the young Gleeman in a manner that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Roth elected to change the subject, as quickly as possible; "I must say, you play extremely well, sir!" he complimented Harper, a touch ingratiatingly.

Harper shrugged again. "Well, Outlander, I _should_ … I have had long enough to learn my craft."

Roth's eyes shifted to Flauter as he chuckled softly. "Near two-hundred years, Chief!" the gaunt lieutenant commented. Harper nodded glumly.

Roth stared at Harper in disbelief. "You are _that_ old?" he gasped.

Harper repeated the nod, more curtly this time, but though habitually close-mouthed, as far as Roth had observed, he now seemed of a mood to speak more than was usually his wont. "It is rare for our kind to live such a span, granted. Once the cursed Power afflicts us, we men of _Aisle Souvraniene_ do not tend to last very long. Most _saidin_ -channelers wander into the wastelands at the centre, within the ring of fire-mounts, where they roam abroad causing mayhem whilst their flesh rots away and their minds turn to corruption." Harper's voice was matter-of-fact, as though speaking of the effects of weather upon crops. "It has gone on in this way for a very long time. Madmen almost always kill each other, if they don't take their own lives first…"

"Either that, or the Fox Daemons get them!" Flauter wryly interjected.

Roth eyed the sartorial _Souvraniene_ suspiciously, then dismissively, secure in the knowledge that, while there most certainly _were_ sea-monsters – he had _seen_ one, had he not? – there definitely were no such things as _daemons!_ Roth returned his attention to Harper, in time to note the Madman tapping a fingernail against the bronze torc stretched about his bull-neck. He spoke confidently; "but with _this_ gift of the Laughing God…"

" _Praise Him!_ " shouted the others, making Roth jump, though he should have become accustomed to it by now. They did it often enough, after all…

"…we can stave off the madness, the Taint." Harper's stern mouth twisted in something that was not quite a smile. "For a time, at least."

"And live rich and full lives!" Flauter chimed-in. Some of the Madmen sniggered in response to this blackly comedic remark; the rest merely looked grim.

Harper did neither, again fixing Roth with his dark stare. "I expect that-" he began to say in his deep voice, but fell silent, frowning, as the craft aboard which they travelled gave a violent lurch, buffeted by a stronger gust than was usual. Roth yelped in alarm, clutching at the wicker hull behind him with one hand whilst the other pressed his harp protectively to his chest. Harper gripped a trailing rope while the others likewise secured themselves in various ways… all but Hummer, who had tumbled onto his back and was sprawled out on the deck, staring up at the sky, continuing to hum softly. As the untoward motion of the deck began to settle down, the youth, Crooner, crawled over and helped the odd humming fellow to sit upright.

"Is this accursed thing safe?" Roth demanded, waving a long-fingered hand at the vessel in which they rode. His fellow passengers stared at him, eyed each other, then began to laugh. There was a disturbing note of madness to the mirth that Roth did not care for one bit…

" _Safe?_ " Harper spluttered.

Flauter smiled nastily. "This is _Aisle Souvraniene_ , Outlander, Land of the Madmen," he sneered, "and you speak of _safety?!_ " The laughter redoubled.

Roth felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He had never enjoyed being laughed at, he was no jester! For all that it did seem to occur more often than he liked… "I was only asking," he muttered, stiffly.

Harper jerked a thumb over his wide shoulder, toward the rear of the hull. "Why, then, do you not just ask our pilot about the perils of travelling aboard this conveyance?" he suggested, "tis _his_ invention after all, a creation of his own conception, so who better than _he_ to know?"

Roth glanced beyond Harper, in the indicated direction, and swallowed nervously. Of all the red-masked Madmen he had thus far encountered, he found _this_ one the most disconcerting… why, even for a _Souvraniene_ , the fellow was clearly completely moonstruck! And, which was worse, he was the bloody _steersman_ of this craft, the lunatic who held their _lives_ in his hands!

His name was 'Rhymer.' He stood at the stern of the vessel; a spindly, gaunt figure occupying a raised platform, a sort of abbreviated quarterdeck, staring out over their heads at the sky before him. The _sky_. Yes, they currently voyaged aloft, drifting through the chill air, far above the solid earth beneath. _Very_ far.

Roth shuddered, trying not to dwell upon his perilous predicament, the severity of his situation… and the extremely long way down, should something disastrous befall him! And his fellow passengers too, he supposed… though they were of less concern, naturally. And did not seem remotely worried about the sheer danger of travelling thus, trespassing upon the aerial realm of birds. And bats also, possibly, though night had yet to fall so _they_ could be discounted. But the others… well, they _were_ mad, after all. Why, 'twas the very reason they were termed 'Madmen' in the first place! It was not just poetic license after all, the name was purely descriptive! And should Roth plummet to his untimely doom, would he even be allotted time enough to dwell upon each of his manifold regrets, ere he struck the ground? Probably not…

"Hoy, Rhymer!" Flauter called out to the pilot, "the nervous Outlander wishes to know if your sky-ship is _safe?!_ "

Rhymer did not respond to this gambit with any immediacy, Roth wondered if he had even heard… but then, the lean, looming man inclined his head, staring down at those sat comfortlessly upon the bare deck below. Roth winced. Rhymer's dome of a skull was entirely bald, whether naturally or from the habitual close-shaving of his shiny scalp, Roth was uncertain. The paucity of hair upon the Madman's head was more than compensated for by the lengthy white beard that obscured the lower half of his face and hung down to well below his belt. His eyes were deep-set and very dark, drilling into all that he gazed upon with hostile intensity, his wide mouth set in a grim line. Between these features resided the most striking distinction to mark Rhymer's face… or rather, the complete _absence_ of such…

Rhymer lacked a _nose!_ Just two hollow slits in the centre of his visage, elongated nostrils, bereft of any kind of proboscis. One of the ubiquitous bronze torcs rested about his skinny neck, but Roth presumed that its efficacy had proved unequal to the task of preventing the Dark One's dread Taint from bringing about this disfiguring mutilation? The pale and parchment-thin skin stretched tightly over the cadaverous Madman's bony face gave his noseless features a disturbingly skull-like quality, if relieved a little by the beard. His ears lay flat against his cranium, and were pierced around their edges with numerous small gold rings.

Rhymer blinked his dark eyes slowly, something malevolent seeming to glitter within their depths, the wind whipping his dark robe about him as he stood easily up on the steering deck above. No matter the forceful disturbances that infrequently shook this ship of the skies, its Steersman never seemed to lose his balance; whilst his fellow _Souvraniene_ and their prisoner might be violently tumbled about, this ancient-seeming Madman ever remained rock-steady upon his bare and thorny feet, as though affixed to the deck of his unstable craft. It was almost as if Rhymer were _part_ of the sky-vessel; somehow attached to this assemblage of wicker and wood.

Rhymer's disturbing gaze moved to Roth, dark eyes narrowing. The young Gleeman flinched; it was a little like being stared upon by the face of Death itself, he imagined… and for some reason, Rhymer did not seem to _like_ him, had been entirely antipathetical towards his unwilling passenger – or cargo? – from the very outset of this hideous voyage amongst the clouds.

Harper spoke up; "our guest requires reassurance, Rhymer. If man were meant to fly, then mayhap the Creator might have given to us _wings_ … what say you?"

After momentary consideration, Rhymer chose to loudly reply, justifying his particular name in so-doing;

" _My noble craft sails soaring through the empty, endless sky;_

 _who fears to voyage thus when Fate determines all men die?_

' _tis ill-advised and hardly wise to wail or wonder why -_

 _One may not out-fly destiny when all are doomed to die!"_

Rhymer's gloomy and entirely unreassuring words were delivered in cracked, harsh tones, the couplets recited in the Old Tongue… for of all Roth's captors, this dire Steersman of the skies alone did not care to speak the Vulgar for his passenger's benefit. With his command of the High Chant, Roth comprehended the matter of the poetry well enough, despite the strange accent… and found the implication in the third stanza a little insulting – he had _not_ been wailing! Of course, given recent events, he certainly _felt_ like having a good wail, but that would be beneath his dignity… "But-" Roth began to object, but Rhymer was far from finished. Fixing the Gleeman with a cruel gaze, he continued;

" _The winds may shake us fiercely but I scarcely deign to care_

 _since I have chose to travel paths that no-one else would dare;_

 _for in these climes the man who rhymes is Master of the Air!"_

Roth viewed this sentiment as being more than a little hubristic, somewhat self-aggrandising even… but did not risk pointing this out. Rhymer's noselessness gave his hard vocal recitation a certain whistling quality… this had nothing to do with the price of fish, as the venerable Falman saying went, though Roth noted it even so. "But…" the Gleeman tried again, "but… what in the Waves gave you the idea to build such a… a…" Roth flapped a hand at the unusual contraption in which he travelled against his will, temporarily speechless, which was extremely rare for him.

Again, Roth's uncomprehending eyes moved over the long wickerwork hull, the slender spars supporting sails belling out to either side, the great gasbag swelling above; all secured by a myriad of ropes, which he fervently hoped were _strong_ ropes.

Rhymer regarded Roth contemptuously, but answered his query even so… clearly, his dislike of the Gleeman was outweighed by enthusiasm for his favourite subject, the desire to speak of it, albeit in his particular and eccentric form of address;

" _A sketch within a book from some lost legendary time_

 _when floating 'midst the clouds was deemed as worthy and sublime;_

 _depicting ways and means to quit the land and rise above_

 _so entering the airy realm of eagle, hawk and dove!"_

Roth blinked. Birds again! But no bats. "How-?" he began to ask. Rhymer ignored him, overriding his query and warming to his topic;

" _Imagination fired I did resolve to do likewise_

 _so fashioned this contraption, lo; a ship to sail the skies!"_

"Tis really more of a _boat_ than a _ship_ ," Roth muttered, in an unwise fit of pedantry, then immediately wished that he had not been so rash. Rhymer's dark and animosity-filled eyes burned into his and the Steersman, clearly incensed, snapped;

" _Thou art a fool and soon shall die;_

 _ending in some cannibal's pie!"_

Roth gulped. "Oh dear! I hope not!" he gasped, fervently desiring that Rhymer was merely being unpleasant, his dire prediction wishful-thinking only, and most certainly _not_ comprising dread words of ill-omened Foretelling. Roth was well-aware that there had existed powerful male-channelers in the past, gifted (or cursed) with a talent for viewing the future… the False Dragon, Guaire Amalasan, to name but one. The notorious Dragon of the West, who had spoken the enigmatic Miereallen Prophecy some one-thousand years prior to the birth of Roth Blucha, Gleeman… born on the very spot where the ancient city of the Hill Above the Waves had once stood, now known simply as 'Falme.'

Rhymer snorted disapprovingly, the harsh sound enhanced by the lack of muffling skin and cartilage. He turned his implacable gaze away from Roth, to the Gleeman's profound relief, and resumed staring straight ahead once more, scanning the sky before them in brooding silence. Clearly sulking…

Roth meekly swivelled around, leaning against the wicker hull, nervously running long fingers over his harp strings, producing muted scales. "This Rhymer fellow doesn't seem to like me very much, does he?" Roth whispered to Harper.

The burly Chief of these Madmen shrugged, noncommittal. "Do not let it concern you, incautious Outlander… in truth, Rhymer does not care for _anyone_."

Flauter grinned, clapping Roth on the shoulder, making him flinch nervously. "True! And our miserable rhyming Steersman was entirely incorrect in his prediction, you know; you'll not comprise the ingredients of a _pie_ anytime soon…"

"Really?!" Roth exclaimed, immediately feeling more positive about things.

Flauter shook his head solemnly. "Nuh-uh! The cannibals… they don't tend to bother with such delicacies as pastry. Should they catch you, they'll just strip the meat off your bones and stuff it into their snaggle-toothed maws, as they always do!"

Roth blinked, then scowled at the smirking Flauter, but declined the opportunity of responding scathingly to his tasteless badinage. He would not give the skinny Madman the satisfaction of knowing that his barb had struck home!

" _Tis that which they did to my kith and kin_ ," Crooner observed dolefully, abandoning his quaint Vulgar speech in favour of the Old Tongue, " _after they raided the village…_ " Roth glanced curiously at the young man, discerning his words readily enough. Crooner's pale eyes were fixed on something far away, sights that the Gleeman was glad he did not share in.

"Not _this_ again!" Flauter muttered, witheringly.

Harper shot the sardonic _Souvraniene_ a warning glance, then addressed Crooner, speaking slowly and distinctly. "It does not do to dwell upon the past, youngster," he gruffly advised, "that was all in another life… you are someone else, now."

Crooner did not seem to have heard. His intense, almost colourless gaze focused upon Roth. " _A time later, I tracked those murderous savages down_ ," he softly stated, " _the cannibal-folk as ate my family and the friends of my childhood_..." the youth smiled beatifically; "… _I boiled them all alive, cooked whole in their own skins!_ "

"Oh?" Roth responded faintly, "is that so..?" He had a pleasant voice, this Crooner, doubtless he sang tolerably well… but evidently had some far _less_ pleasant things to say with it. _And_ the ability to match his menacing words to his horrific actions, utilising the dread forces of tainted _saidin_ …

" _The sounds they made, when I punished them!_ " Crooner enthused, leaning closer to Roth, " _you should have been there, Outlander! You should!_ " Roth smiled in sickly fashion, trying to inch further away from the encroaching psychotic without being too obvious about it. " _It were a glorious spectacle, such a sight to see!_ "

"That's _enough_ , Crooner!" Harper growled, "I'm seriously starting to _worry_ about you, lad!"

Crooner blinked his pale eyes slowly, collecting himself. He glanced at Harper apologetically. "Much forgiveness, Chieftain," he mumbled in his odd, antique version of the Vulgar, pressing a trembling hand over his brow, "I doth mislay the sanguine senses of my mind, betimes…"

"Burning ashes!" Flauter cursed, "speak the bloody Old Tongue, boy! You sound flaming ridiculous when you mangle that crude Vulgar speech!"

"Shut-it, Flauter!" Harper snarled, before returning his attention to Crooner; "everything alright now?"

Crooner nodded shakily. " _I shall be fine_ ," he assured Harper, slipping back into the ancient language of the Age of Legends. Then, the troubled youth promptly curled onto his side upon the deck, wrapping his fur cloak about him, drawing up his knees and assuming a foetal posture. " _My head hurts..._ " Crooner mumbled, "… _me_ _thinks I'll sleep awhile._ "

Roth noted that Harper and Flauter, after watching Crooner closely as he fell swiftly into an unquiet, disturbed slumber, exchanged a glance that held caution… and also perhaps, some dark decision He felt that this did not bode well for the troubled youth. Roth's eyes moved warily back to Rhymer, looming above them, stood steadily upon his pilot's deck. The Steersman's attention was yet firmly fixed upon the skies, seemingly his preferred element. "What-?" Roth began to ask… but then, another powerful blast of air shook them, causing the sky-ship to tremble and shake. Roth groaned, scrabbling for something to hold onto, glad that he had missed breakfast despite his sharp hunger pangs, for he would assuredly have vomited, else. This air-travel was even worse than a sea-voyage for making oneself sick to the stomach!

Harper scowled as he pulled Hummer back into a more-or-less upright position… the strange, squat Madman did not seem to have noticed that he had once more tumbled to the deck. "Curse you, Rhymer!" Harper shouted, "I tire of this! Take us _higher_ …" Roth swallowed nervously. Personally, he would prefer _lower_ , ideally with the end-result of his boots being back on firm ground once more. " _Faster_ would be good too!" Harper loudly added, "time and wind wait for no Madman!"

Flauter smiled goadingly at Roth. "Sometimes, the gusts diminish the further up you go," he explained, unhelpfully adding; "sometimes not. We shall see." His shrewd gaze settled on Crooner. The buffet had somehow not awoken the sleeping youth; there was a tormented cast to his comatose features and his limbs twitched as though he were attempting to run away from something, a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to flee some dread pursuit. Roth returned his attention to Rhymer to see what he would do, though hardly anticipating the prospect.

After frowning briefly at Harper, clearly resenting his brusque commands, Rhymer had taken a milky, crystalline sphere from one of his capacious sleeves, gripping it tightly as he craned his long neck, staring up at the pale gasbag bulging overhead. Roth could not make out exactly what was happening, but above, around the opening in the base of the great ballooning sack, there was a distinct shimmering; reminiscent of a heat-mirage in the Aiel Waste. "What is Rhymer doing?" Roth breathed.

"Warming the contents of yon blimpish bag with Fire weaves," Flauter answered, his gaze also fixed upwards, "hot air _rises_ , don't you know?"

The sky-ship appeared to be rising also, Roth guessed, though it was hard to be sure with no fixed point of reference. A swift and fearful glimpse over the side of the hull seemed to indicate that the dark canopy of trees far below, the snaking, silvery outline of a river, were looking perceptibly further away. Distressingly distant…

Sliding to a seated position again, Roth noted that Flauter's attention had shifted downwards, with more than a hint of envy in his dark eyes… the young Gleeman followed the direction of that gaze, now fixed upon the globe of pale crystal that filled Rhymer's palm. The object was glowing brightly! "What is that shining glass ball?" Roth wondered.

"An _angreal_ ," Flauter answered, not taking his eyes off the ancient device.

"Quite a powerful one, too," Harper commented, "there are hardly any of them left down here, in _Aisle Souvraniene_ … and Drummer cannot make more, it lies beyond his abilities, for all that he can produce _ter'angreal_ , after a fashion." He eyed Roth speculatively; "are such common, where you come from?"

Roth shook his head. "I don't think so. The Aes Sedai keep most artefacts of the Power secured deep within the vaults of their White Tower, I believe… though those are presumably just the ones for female-channelers. I am not sure about _angreal_ that men can use… in fact, I am not even entirely certainly what they are _for_ … I get them confused with _ter'angreal_ … "

"Like _this?_ " Harper held up the small, round instrument that conferred temporary invisibility on the user. Roth eyed his magickal pipe (as _he_ always privately referred to it) with regret, presuming that he would be unlikely to get it back again, then bleakly nodded. "An interesting device," Harper commented, tucking the Pipe- _ter'angreal_ back into his belt, "I wonder how you came by it..?"

"We found it, Old Willi and I," Roth muttered, then scowled. "The remainder of the account of the Pipe's discovery involves an oddly-garbed dead man and the enormous great hound that savaged him… since the big black dog in question was the size of a carthorse and therefore a _monster_ , I presume that you will not be interested in hearing about it further, because you don't seem to believe in the existence of m-"

"What is a _carthorse?_ " Harper demanded. Roth blinked, wondering how to respond.

"Wish _I_ had my own _angreal_ ," Flauter muttered jealously, still staring at the pulsing crystal, adding spitefully; "Rhymer only got _his_ by sucking-up to the Boss!"

"A time-honoured way of advancing in one's profession!" Roth smugly observed. Flauter shot him an antagonistic glance, but despite the peril of riling a dangerous male-channeler, Roth was still quite pleased with himself for scoring a point, even if it made him appear somewhat petty! Well, he could live with that…

"That is our height taken care of, now for _speed_..." Harper declared.

Roth looked back at Rhymer in time to see the tall _Souvraniene_ squint to either side purposefully. The sphere of crystal he held, the _angreal_ as these Madmen named it, continued to flare brightly. The triangular sails between which the hull hung suspended grew yet more taught, the spars supporting them creaking in concert. The chill air rushed past at an increased rate.

"We are going faster!" Roth exclaimed, whilst wondering yet again _where_ they were going. No-one had told him… not that he had exactly got around to _asking_. Not yet, at least. He was waiting for the right moment to glean further details of their destination, as well as his kidnapper's intentions concerning the talented-yet-skilful Gleeman whose reluctant companionship they had so inexplicably chosen to cultivate. Roth only hoped that the answer to this question would not prove _too_ horrific. Some chance! His luck had ever been poor, but had grown markedly _worse_ of late, he glumly considered…

It was then that the addled Rhymer noticed Roth's gaze, which appeared to be fixed on him… though in truth, the young Gleeman's eyes were not particularly focused upon anything whilst his thoughts strayed elsewhere. Roth abruptly realised that he was being glared at poisonously in response to his unwitting observation and hastily averted his eyes. Too late…

" _Gaah!_ " Rhymer angrily shouted.

"What is amiss, good Rhymer?" Flauter casually enquired.

Rhymer accusatively pointed a knobbly, yellow-taloned finger at the offending Gleeman and gave voice to his annoyance, sounding aggrieved;

" _I mislike the way he stares at me_

 _if he persists I guarantee_

 _I'll end his present misery;_

 _from strife and life I'll set him free!"_

Roth quailed. "I wasn't looking at your nose, honestly!" he frantically whined, "I mean, that is to say… where your nose… used to… be..?" This was clearly the wrong thing to say entirely, as was so often the case with Roth Blucha, Gleeman… but impossible now to _unsay_ it! "Um… sorry..?"

Rhymer redoubled his glare, taking a threatening step toward Roth, who shrank closer to the deck, doing his very best to look as inoffensive as possible. Fortunately, Harper intervened, rising to his large, booted feet, muscular arms crossed over his bare, barrel-chest. "You may not kill the Outlander," he told Rhymer in no uncertain terms, "not yet, at least. The God will certainly wish to speak to him first."

Rhymer hesitated, slowly blinking his dark, glittering eyes.

Flauter spoke-up cheerfully; "he wasn't exactly staring at you, Rhymer, but if you're so burning self-conscious about it then put your bloody mask back on!" Whisperer leant toward him, muttering quietly into his ear. Flauter nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, good idea… _or_ your nose!" he added, relaying the suggestion of the strange, tow-headed young fellow who never seemed to speak aloud.

Rhymer frowned, then shrugged his bony shoulders. " _The nose, I suppose_ ," he mused to himself, then dug a hand into the pocket of his robe, pulling out something small and shiny, attached to thin, rawhide straps. Roth watched surreptitiously as Rhymer raised the object to his face, strapping it into place about his hairless skull. When he took his gnarled hands away, a skilfully-wrought, hooked article was revealed; a prosthetic proboscis, worked in silver, covering the distended nostrils betwixt eyes and mouth. Roth gaped… a false _nose_ , of all things! Could this interminable and perilous voyage through the skies get any _stranger?_

Rhymer swivelled his bald head, peering down a silvered beak at the watching Madmen below. "Better!" Flauter remarked. Rhymer's eyes narrowed and he snorted in a muted way, directing a final warning stare at Roth, in concert with a forbidding warning;

" _Your patchwork things won't serve as wings;_

' _tis a long way down for a colourful clown!"_

The cracked voice of Rhymer now possessed a congested quality… with this parting-shot out of the way, the bizarre _Souvraniene_ returned his attention to steering the sky-ship toward its unknown destination. Again, Roth breathed a sigh of relief.

"Actually," Flauter quietly commented, "Rhymer _does_ seem to dislike you a little more than most, Outlander… though I cannot imagine _why_."

Roth was not listening. " _Clown!_ " he repeated softly, greatly offended. Almost as bad as being called a 'jester' which was what those belligerent Twin Warders of Shrina's had rudely greeted him as after the battle, naming him a Court Fool also! But still… not near so insulting as being termed a _Bard!_ Though come to think of it, Aebel and Blaek had also mentioned something about 'barding' had they not? They had! The nerve! A pair of peevish peas in a pod, the Feruile brothers, that's all they were! Just because Roth Blucha, Gleeman, had been Shrina Tolamani's first love and she probably still secretly liked him best! Envious wretches!

Harper interrupted Roth's furious considerations by sitting down next to him and gruffly stating; "not long now… we'll be there by sundown."

Roth ignored this for the time being and eyed the preoccupied Rhymer cautiously, carefully keeping his eyes hooded. That fake snoot looked absurd! He would not dare say so, however… "Isn't it a little _dangerous_ , keeping someone like your rhyming Steersman around?" the young Gleeman wondered, pitching his voice as low as possible. Flauter glanced over at him, then shrugged, disinterested.

Harper regarded Roth flatly. "What mean you, Outlander?"

Roth hesitated, then ventured; "well… Rhymer's _nose_ … if it has rotted off, then that must mean he's afflicted with the Dark One's Taint worse than the rest of you… who yet _retain_ your noses…"

Flauter smirked. "Amazing powers of observation you possess!" he drawled, then tentatively touched his thin, aquiline nose. "Still there," he exclaimed, "such a relief!"

Roth studiously ignored the sarcastic _Souvraniene_ , doggedly continuing with his theme; "I mean, Rhymer might go _mad_ at any moment," the Gleeman posited, sea-green eyes moving to Hummer, who was droning softly whilst rocking back and forth, "even madder than _him!_ "

Harper shook his head firmly. "Rhymer did not lose his nose to the _Taint_ ," he rumbled. "The torc- _ter'angreal_ protect our bodies from the worst effects of the Dark One's curse…" his troubled gaze moved to the sleeping Crooner, who was twitching and moaning in the throes of a nightmare, "…though not so much our _minds_."

Roth raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Then how-?"

"Rhymer lost his snout in a fight," Flauter revealed, grinning, "a long time ago. Doesn't like to talk about it. Well, _rhyme_ about it, anyway."

Harper nodded sagely, his eyes glazing over a little as he recalled the distant past. "Rhymer and Chanter never got on… hated each other like poison, in fact. They were about equal in the Power, so when they finally tried to kill one another, they went about it in the traditional way for these parts… with fists, feet and teeth."

Flauter chuckled. " _Especially_ the last on the list! Rhymer got the worst of it in the end… Chanter bit his bloody nose off!"

Roth stared. "Urgh! How horrid!" He considered this revelation for a moment. "Who is this 'Chanter' then? Am I going to have to meet him too? I can't say I like the sound of the fellow…"

Harper and Flauter exchanged an exasperated glance. "You _do_ ask a lot of questions don't you, Outlander," Harper observed, before allowing; "Chanter? Why, from what you say, you already _know_ him!"

Roth blinked confusedly. "I do?"

Flauter nodded impatiently. "The old man you call _Gen_ … he was one of us, once, before the fool burnt himself out…" Whisperer had been silently listening and abruptly leaned in, speaking softly and urgently into Flauter's ear… the thin, sardonic Madman eyed the stocky, fair-haired youth askance. "Trying to use the Everstone…" he repeated from force of habit, then demanded; "why do you imagine the prying bloody Outlander even _cares_ about _that_ particular detail?!" Naturally, Whisperer made no overt response to this, the stocky young man merely shrugged wordlessly. Flauter sighed loudly, shaking his head scathingly.

"Gen…" Roth repeated, wonderingly.

Harper nodded. "That was what Chanter was called before he was given his new title by the Laughing God-"

" _Praise him!_ " the others shouted… all but Whisperer, naturally, though he mutely moved his lips at the same time as the others chorused their devotions.

Roth jumped. "I _wish_ you'd all stop doing that!" he complained.

Harper ignored this. "Seems he's gone back to his original name," the burly Madman mused, "or mayhap the Fox Queen told him to…"

"Fox… Queen..?" Roth wondered, distractedly.

Flauter scowled at mention of this name. "Never mind about _her_ ," he snarled, "the days of _that_ fell She-Daemon are numbered…" he shrugged, "…a long while back, Chanter was sent to the wastelands to kill the wicked bitch, but failed in his duty… the Queen o' Foxes took him captive, spared his life for some reason known only to her, even made a sort of _pet_ out of him, I heard…" Flauter shook his head in disgust.

"This was before that bad business with the Everstone," Harper added. Whisperer looked up and nodded enthusiastically at mention of this artefact. Harper continued; "back when Chanter could still channel… he was one of our strongest, up there with me and Singer, Whistler… Rhymer too… even Drummer, almost."

"Though not the Boss," Flauter pointed-out.

Harper snorted. "Goes without saying! No-one is _that_ powerful, but for the Seven Sons…"

" _Who?_ " Roth wondered, confused.

"Seven Sons of the Shadow!" Hummer shouted, alarmingly.

"The male Forsaken, of course!" Flauter explained witheringly, "none but the Boss could match _them!_ "

"What about the Dragon Reborn?" Roth suggested, without thinking, "I hear he's uncommon powerful… at, um… well, the sort of things that channelers do…"

Harper, Flauter and the others stared at the young Gleeman intently. "Lord o' the Morning!" Hummer declared, before resuming his perpetual droning noise.

"What know _you_ of the Dragon?" Harper demanded.

"Only that the Champion of the Light has been born anew into this troubled world," Roth glibly answered, "and that, commensurately, the Last Battle is coming…"

Abruptly, Crooner's eyes snapped open and he sat upright. " _Tarmon Gai'don!_ " he gasped, blinking away the sleep. Harper and the others regarded him warily, but the youth did not speak again, relapsing into a more tranquil state.

Roth blithely continued with his news of the reincarnated Dragon, glad to have a more attentive audience now than that which had earlier rudely doubted his exciting tale of the sea-monster… "The latest incarnation of Lews Therin Telamon, that is to say; the _new_ Dragon, is named 'Randal Thorn' apparently… an Andorman, I do believe, hailing from the sheep-infested western wilds, somewhere way out past this ghastly mining-town called Baerlon… I went there once with Old Willi, 'tis an utterly dreadful place! But as for the Dragon Reborn; why, back home in the Westlands, simply _everyone_ is talking about him!"

Harper and Flauter exchanged a long and considering glance, heavy with hidden meaning. Then, Harper's dark, penetrating stare settled back on Roth. "Oh, the God is most _definitely_ going to want to talk to _you_ , Outlander," the burly Chief of the Madmen growled. Roth did not find this assertion particularly reassuring.

"Over and above the other reasons," Flauter added, "the Boss is always interested in news from the north… these 'Westlands' of yours. 'Tis where he originates from, seemingly, though he never talks about it."

"Really..?" Roth responded absently, wondering about something else. "Where… where are you taking me?" he enquired, a note of desperation in his voice, "to this ruined city of yours… Larchin?"

" _Larcheen_ ," Harper corrected, adding; "we'll land there ere long, but first, we have a stop to make, along the way…"

"Hob's Hill," Flauter revealed, with a sly smile. There was something decidedly vulpine about him, Roth considered. He had not noticed it before… but then, the words filtered into his consciousness.

"Hob's… Hill...?" Roth repeated wonderingly, "you mean… _Caisen Hob?_ Like in the story?"

" _What_ story?" Harper curtly queried, eyes narrowing irritably.

" _Billi beneath the Hill_ , of course!"

"Never heard of it." Harper glanced enquiringly at Flauter, who shook his head.

"Me neither." The thin Madman grinned at Roth sarcastically, "but you can tell us all about this 'Billi' and his hill on the way, Outlander, since you seem to have a knack for tall-tales!"

Roth shrugged modestly, giving the brightly-hued patches sewn to his cloak a flutter. "Well, songs and stories _are_ my trade, after all…" though in a seated posture, he managed to draw himself up proudly, even so, "…for you see, _I_ am a Gleeman!"

"Yes, we _know_."

Roth stared at Hummer, abashed, waiting to see if the strange fellow would speak further, but he did not, merely resumed his monotonous droning. "You… know..?"

Harper nodded impatiently. "Aye… Gleeman. Of course we do. Us Red-Masks usually have a hard way with spies, as you would have discovered to your cost… but that fluttery cloak of many colours which you wear… 'tis the sole reason we spared your life." He smiled coldly. "You see, the God has one _just like_ it!"

"He does?" Roth gasped, surprised. _This_ was an unlooked-for development!

Flauter nodded with mock solemnity. "A long time ago… a _very_ long time, longer than you would believe, well… the Boss was a Gleeman too!" The gaunt _Souvraniene_ chuckled in response to Roth's confused expression, then frowned in annoyance as yet again, the thickset youth beside him leaned close to whisper into his ear. Flauter sighed, eyeing Whisperer narrowly, then qualified; " _Master_ Gleeman!"

Roth gaped. "A Master of the Craft..?" he mumbled.

Harper gruffly confirmed this; "aye… the Laughing God-"

" _Praise him!_ "

"-commanded us that should we ever encounter an Outlander who wore a patched cloak akin to his, then we were to bring him directly for an audience."

"Ideally, _unharmed_ ," Flauter added, with a menacing leer. Roth gaped wider.

"You're _expected_ , Gleeman!" Harper drolly commented.

"But… what then?" Roth wondered, with a deal of pathos in his voice, "what is to become of me?"

Harper shrugged his broad shoulders, indicating that this was of little concern to him. His cold eyes held nothing whatsoever in the way of sympathy, merely ruthless certainty. "What indeed? One of the same two things that _always_ occur when we bring someone before the God…"

"And what might those be?" Roth felt compelled to enquire, though he suspected that he would not particularly appreciate hearing the answer.

Harper glanced at Flauter, who readily revealed; "well, the Boss will talk to you awhile… then, if he decides that he _approves_ of you, he will spare your life."

"And… and if not?" Roth stammered.

Harper frowned. "If the God disapproves… well, in _that_ event…"

"Yes?" Roth urged.

"He'll _destroy_ you." Harper spoke with grim finality, and for once, Flauter seemed equally serious. The other Madmen observed in expectant silence.

Roth released the breath he had been holding, considering the vagaries of life and death for a long moment. "The Wheel weaves..." he whispered, then sighed softly, feeling oddly at peace, and took another deep breath, preparatory to beginning. "Alright… let's get on with it." Roth's trained Gleeman's voice adopted the cadence of a professional teller-of-tales, with the ease of long practice;

" _One fine morning, a likely lad named Billi arose early and looked out of the window to see if the sun was shining… and it was! So; young Billi washed his face, his hands and even behind his ears, got dressed and then, with a spring in his step, set off for the village market to see what was afoot. Now; halfway betwixt Billi's mother's farm and that aforementioned village (which now is called 'Endersole' but in those distant days was yet named 'Eggington') there loomed, large as life and legendary as ever you like, an ancient and mysterious hill…"_

* * *

 **Act Three :** _ **Tidings**_

The forest clearing was alive with violent motion, echoing with bestial shouts and agonised screams… but even caught-up within the heart of the Dance, a deadly mote of desert sand spinning at the centre of a lethal whirlwind, the mismatched eyes of Cohradin remained affixed on the strange thing, high above. Without troubling to look, he viciously lashed his elbow back, crushing the larynx of one of the dirty savages, barely even aware that he had waked his latest opponent from the Cannibal-Dream, whilst simultaneously plunging his spear-blade into the heart of another of the grimy enemy… these fur-clad, pointy-toothed, stinking fools who had been so rash as to challenge the _Sovin Nai!_ Cohradin gaped upwards in astonishment, even as he wrenched his spear free and swiftly sidestepped the clumsy downward sweep of a crude, wooden club, studded with the serrated fangs of a 'shark-fish.'

"What _is_ that thing up there?" Cohradin cried in wonder to his knife-brothers, as he punched the heel of his hand into the club-wielding native's face, driving the nasal bone into their brain with a wet crunch, killing them instantly.

"I know not, my brother," Chassin loudly responded as he gutted his most recent opponent with both knives, ducked deftly beneath a lunging, flint-tipped lance, then sprang high into the air, lashing out a soft-booted foot in a skull-fracturing kick.

"Gerom?" Cohradin prompted.

The massive Knife Hand hurled the corpse of the cannibal he had throttled at two more of the attacking foe, sending them sprawling back, then leapt forward to finish them with economical thrusts of the spear he had plucked from behind his bow-harness. "Some manner of 'boat' that travels the upper air," Gerom mused, his placid gaze returning to that which held their rapt attention, rising amongst the clouds, "I may have seen a picture of such in an ancient book, though it was so faded I could not be certain… a contraption of the Age of Legends, or mayhap previous to those times…"

A howling female savage leapt at Gerom from the rear, brandishing an obsidian-bladed dagger… without taking his studious attention from the object overhead, the hulking _Sovin Nai_ reversed his spear with a dexterous twirling motion and thrust the blade deep into her abdomen, disembowelling her with a forceful twist.

"But how does it fly in the sky like that?" Cohradin further demanded, whilst he viciously waked three more of the enemy in as many moments, continuing to observe the floating craft in disbelief, "is it a thing of the One Power?"

Gerom shook his head as he yanked his gory knife-hand from the punctured chest of another dead native. "I think not… the large bag beneath which the vessel is suspended, presumably filled with heated air, serves to hold it aloft…"

Chassin grinned as he swept his knives out to either side, thoroughly cutting his adversary's throat, dodging beneath the twin sprays of arterial blood from the deep parallel gashes. "Held up in the air by _more_ air? I think-me that _you_ are full of hot air, Gerom!" the diminutive _Sovin Nai_ jested. Gerom smiled patiently, even as he killed a further victim with his large and powerful hands, a flicker of regret passing swiftly over his placid features. Chassin slew yet another foe without a trace of guilt and glanced speculatively up at the strange shape soaring high overhead. "Only the True Source of the Aes Sedai could make a ship-boat fly like that!" he scoffed, then turned back to the remaining savages.

The score of cannibals loitered hesitantly around the edges of the clearing, clutching their primitive weaponry, clad in rough furs, crudely scarred and tattooed, teeth filed to sharp points. This band of fierce natives lingering at the treeline seemed reluctant to renew their attack… and with good reason. They were clearly disconcerted… bad enough that they were being slaughtered, but worse; these murderous strangers engaged in the slaughtering had not even the decency to _pay attention_ to them whilst they went about their butchery!

"Come face the _Sovin Nai_ , filthy people-eaters!" Chassin yelled belligerently, "there are no Shadow-twisted beastlings in _this_ Land for us to wake, so you point-toothed, hairy fellows will have to serve in their stead! Who wishes first to… to be…" he trailed-off, frowning. "Hoy! Where are you _going?_ Get back here!"

Cohradin tore his blue and red gaze away from the floating sky-thing that fascinated him so, absently wrenching his spear from a dead savage's chest as he did… then scowled as he saw what had angered his knife-brother. Not that it took _much_ to make Chassin angry, of course… The cannibal savages of this Madman's Land, they who attacked strangers on sight (often devouring them also) had clearly never fought Aiel before, and _Shaido_ Aiel at that… they had quite obviously had their fill of the resulting bloody mayhem. The surviving remnants of this unequal skirmish were now running away, fleeing back into the woods with alacrity!

" _Cowards!_ " Cohradin bellowed after the retreating enemy, wondering whether it was worth pursuing and then deciding that he really could not be bothered. Besides, the _Sovin Nai_ had a different purpose… redeeming from captivity the foolish Gleeman, and now (more importantly!) finding-out what that floaty thing up there was!

Cohradin, ever the leal servant of his own curiosity, badly wished to know what the flying boat might be. He had seen all sorts of strange artifices in his short-yet-adventurous life; the vasty tomb of the Nightwatcher's big-brother (now destroyed) replete with mysteries and wonders… the shining pyramid of the Headbelly Men, hid deep within the steaming jungles of Forbidden Shara, as described by Jain-called-Farstrider of Lost Malkier, as corroborated by Red-Eyed Cohradin of the _Sovin Nai!_ Why, he had even risked the ire of irascible Wise Ones and strode the silent streets of the Hidden City, Rhuidean, before venturing into the twisty redstone doorway of the dishonourable and disturbing Foxmen, which lay at its heart! But never had Cohradin beheld an actual _ship_ that could sail the _skies!_ This was something entirely _new_ , and he strongly desired to learn more about it…

Chassin closed an eye, flipped one of his knives, catching the point betwixt forefinger and thumb, drew back his arm and _threw_. The blade whirled through the air toward a fleeing savage at the rear of their indisciplined mob, about to disappear into the forest, hot on the heels of the others. With a dull impact, the round steel pommel struck the back of his skull – he grunted, stumbled head-first into a tree-trunk with a crack of bone upon wood, then fell back onto the grass and lay still.

Cohradin eyed Chassin, amused. "Unlike you to strike a foe with the blunt end of your dagger, my brother," he observed.

Chassin scowled. "I did not _miss_ , Cohradin," he objected, "I hit what I aimed at, in the manner that I wished… I _meant_ to take one of these carribals alive!"

" _Cannibals_ ," Gerom corrected.

"Whichever!" Chassin snapped.

"Why?" Cohradin wondered, "are you hoping that the nasty fellow will share his foul food with you?!"

"No! To question him, of course!"

"Which questions? About what?"

" _That!_ " Chassin pointed up into the sky with his remaining knife.

Again, Cohradin's fascinated attention returned to the thing far above, Gerom and Chassin moving to stand beside him, stepping unconcernedly over the enemy corpses that thickly littered the clearing, the pools of blood soaking into the loam. They silently stared upwards also. As one, the _Sovin Nai_ tugged down their black veils, since the Dance of Spears was done, then Cohradin closed his blue eye, his _real_ eye, and focused with the red one. The air-boat or ship-of-the-skies or whatever it was sprang closer in his vision; the long hull, the big and bulging bag it hung below, like an overfull waterskin, the sail-things supported on wooden poles, stretching out to either side, propelling it along much as the other manner of sea-craft was moved over water… Cohradin's magnified gaze shifted back to the central compartment, which contained people. He had glimpsed them earlier, just before the savages foolishly attacked… again, he caught a flash of a familiar colourful cloak, patches fluttering in the breeze.

"Roth Blucha is up there, with his captors," Cohradin informed the others, "it will be more of a challenge to find the foolish Gleeman now…"

"I cannot _track_ this flying vessel," Chassin grumbled, "one does not leave footprints in the sky!"

"Of course one does not," Cohradin agreed equably, "but it barely seems to be moving so fast, whatever it is… we can follow along beneath, and wait for it to land once more." With his spear, he pointed down the slope beneath them; "awaiting its passengers, it sat upon the ground here, seemingly, so presumably will return to the earth elsewhere…" Chassin shrugged, Gerom nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

Below lay an extensive, circular area of cleared forest, scattered with weathered tree-stumps, a round stockade of logs raised at the centre. The long grass sprouting in the vicinity bore clear imprints of the tracks which the _Sovin Nai_ had followed to this place; deep marks left by the heavy boots of the seven Madmen, as well as the foolish, distinctively-pointed footwear that the Gleeman wore… all led in this direction, down the slope and into the fortification. There was room within the palisade for a couple of huts, a long cabin and a large patch of flattened dirt from which they had earlier seen the sky-thing arise.

A tall flag-staff projecting from the cabin's steeply-sloped roof held a long pennant, whipping in the wind, depicting a red, laughing face of evil aspect. In addition, a ring of poles was set in the earth about the circumference of the stockade; each had a withered, human head impaled atop it. With the aid of his special red eye, Cohradin could see that every leathery face was marked with dark and faded tattoos, ritual scars, the teeth in the gaping mouths filed to points. Clearly; a warning for the benefit of the savages, not to trespass upon the landing-place of the sky-thing… these red-masked Madmen evidently took their privacy seriously!

Gerom glanced over a wide shoulder. "Our prisoner is getting away," he casually mentioned. Cohradin looked too. It was true; whilst their attention had been diverted elsewhere, the felled savage had regained consciousness to a degree and, rising to his hands and knees, was groggily attempting to crawl back into the woods. Unhurriedly, the three _Sovin Nai_ strolled after him, Chassin retrieving his thrown knife on the way. The crawling native turned his shaggy head, the back of his skull bloody… dark eyes widened at the sight of the trio of drably-clothed, spear-wielding killers closing on him. Further blood marred his forehead from where he had struck the tree and a few stray bits of bark clung there also, partially occluding the crude tattoos inked into his dirty skin. His mouth, part-obscured by an untidy, knotted beard, fell open, revealing yellowing teeth, filed into unnatural sharpness.

"This Madlander is an ugly fellow!" Cohradin commented as they approached.

" _You_ should know, Cohradin," Chassin quipped, "the sight of your face could turn a nanny-goat's milk sour at fifty paces, my brother!" Gerom chuckled softly.

Cohradin merely snorted derisively. "You are but jealous of my impressive scar, Chassin… all _you_ have are those winsome dimples set in your sunken cheeks!"

Chassin glowered, self-consciously touching one of these deep marks in his face, where an arrow-shaft had doubly punctured the skin when shot sideways through his mouth, during the infamous Sand-Storm Dance with the stinking Shaarad. Why, these matching indentations were a sign of honour too, and Cohradin was well aware that he had a _great_ many more scars distributed about his person than _that!_

The savage attempted to rise, staggered, then dropped down to all fours once more. Gamely, he resumed his attempt to crawl away from the _Sovin Nai_. Gerom stepped in front of him, immovably blocking his path to safety, whilst Cohradin and Chassin paused to either side, scanning the surrounding forest for further enemies… but there were none. And if the others were stupid enough to return, then over and above the considerable noise they made crashing through the trees, the Knife Hands would likely _smell_ them coming long before they heard or saw them! But no, the dazed and crawling native's brethren were long-gone, and had left him behind.

"He does not give up easily, this one," Gerom commented in his deep tones, eyeing the savage curiously. This native of _Aisle Souvraniene_ rose unsteadily, kneeling upright, a dirty hand fumbling at his rope belt, not finding what he sought.

"Do you seek this, Madlander?" Cohradin enquired, holding up the obsidian-bladed dagger that had earlier fallen from the savage's possession when he ran into the tree. Their prisoner's eyes focused blearily on his crude weapon, then he snarled something in what was presumably the Old Tongue, a statement that sounded defiant. "What did he say, Gerom?" Cohradin idly wondered, glancing over his shoulder to see if the boat-thing was still there, up in the sky. It was, though now moving steadily away from them, heading roughly in a southerly direction. No matter, they could catch up to it easily, once their questions were answered… and they had _better_ be!

"The native tells you to kill him with his own weapon, as is only fitting, and to be quick about it," Gerom interpreted. The savage muttered something else. "He says he does not fear death, or us either, whoever we are…" Their prisoner scowled darkly and spat a further word at them. "He names us; 'Outlanders.'"

Cohradin scowled back at the savage, only more-so. "Huh! I was thinking of waking the vile fellow," he declared, "but now… I shall not! No man tells Red-Eyed Cohradin what to do, or commands him in the manner and time of their death at his fearsome hands… just for that, I shall let the unappealing Madlander _live!_ " The savage blinked his bloodshot eyes, then addressed Gerom briefly. "What did he say this time, my brother? It had best not be more of his insolent orders!"

Gerom shook his large head slowly back and forth. "No, Cohradin, not so… he merely wants to know what _you_ said."

"Oh. Well… tell him, then!"

Gerom sighed gustily, then did so, his own use of the Old Tongue somewhat halting and stilted, but certainly sounding more civilised than the rough speech of their kneeling captive. The injured savage blinked once more as he assimilated these words, whilst rubbing at the abrasion on his forehead, brushing away the small pieces of bark that were stuck to the bloody skin. He examined his gory fingers with detached interest, then licked them clean with relish.

"Ask the carribal why he and his nasty folk attacked us," Chassin urged.

" _Cannibal_ ," Gerom corrected again, then translated. The savage stated something abbreviated and to the point in response. "He declares that for strangers to come here is death." The prisoner spoke again. "His people always kill Outlanders, for sport," Gerom further explained. The native added a couple more words. Gerom raised his eyebrows. " _And_ food." The cannibal bared his filed teeth in a fierce smile, then licked his lips and rubbed his stomach, to indicate that he would like to eat them.

Chassin sneered. "It is not meet, to devour the flesh of people," he growled, "that is what the Trollocs do."

" _And_ the Reyn, when they have run-out of goats and cannot find any snakes or lizards!" Cohradin laughed. The others ignored him, preoccupied with examining their prisoner, who was yawning widely, further exposing his fangs. Cohradin frowned, sulkily.

"He certainly _smells_ a little like a Shadow-twisted," Gerom observed, wrinkling his nose with distaste.

Chassin nodded thoughtfully. "True… though he looks more like a-"

"Enough!" Cohradin shouted, then grabbed the native by the front of his ragged jerkin and hauled him roughly to his feet, dragging him to the edge of the clearing. The savage struggled at first, but then went limp. Gerom and Chassin joined them. Cohradin gestured up at the floating craft receding into the southern sky. "What that?" he loudly demanded, "me want know!"

"Why are you speaking thus, Cohradin?" Gerom enquired, curiously.

"It is the manner of speech which the primitive jungle-folk of Forbidden Shara understand," Cohradin laboriously explained, "it was in this wise that I conversed with the odd and unusual Headbelly Men!"

Chassin and Gerom exchanged a sceptical look. "Not this again!" Chassin complained, "Cohradin, no-one believes your foolish tale of men without heads upon their shoulders but with faces set in their midriffs! There is no such thing as the Headbelly Men!"

"There is so! They are not mere stories, they are true!" Cohradin insisted.

"No, Cohradin, in actuality they _are_ stories," Gerom patiently refuted, before pointing-out; "and furthermore, they are Jain Farstrider's stories, _not_ yours!"

Cohradin glared at his knife-brothers, momentarily lost for words.

The savage had first peered at the distant flying vessel, fear in his eyes, then looked back and forth at the arguing Aielmen in surly incomprehension. But at Gerom's words, he gaped, again exposing his carnivorous teeth. " _Far… Strider!_ " he grunted, then; " _Charin… Jain Charin!_ "

The _Sovin Nai_ fell silent, staring at their prisoner in surprise. "You know of Jain Farstrider, the Malkieri explorer?" Gerom rumbled, curious. The native snapped his pointed teeth shut and eyed the Knife Hands disparagingly, mouth compressed to a thin line framed by his untidy beard, refusing to say more.

"Bah!" bahed Cohradin, "this wastes our valuable time and angers me also!" He tightened his grip on the savage's collar and pointed the obsidian blade up at the diminishing speck in the sky. " _That!_ " Cohradin snapped, "what that?" The savage's dark eyes flicked toward the object of his captor's wonderment and again, he seemed scared. Cohradin then shook him a little, not unlike a terrier shaking a rat. With evident reluctance, the prisoner began to speak in his debased dialect of the Old Tongue, relating details at some length, occasionally moving his hands in rough signs. Finally, his explanation ceased; he glared at them silently. Cohradin released his firm hold on the jerkin, wiping the hand on his britches. "Well?" he demanded of Gerom.

The hulking Knife-Hand furrowed his heavy brow a little, then answered slowly and distinctly. "The thing up there… he calls it a 'Sky-Ship.' It is a craft of the Red Masks that we seek, steered by one of their number, a potent channeler whom he names 'Skull-Face.' On occasion-"

"An interesting name!" Cohradin obliviously observed, "though this loathly savage has the aspect of a born-liar and a teller of untruths, so I should like to see this bone-headed Madman for myself and judge whether he-"

"Do you translate or do I? Interrupt me no further, Cohradin!" Gerom grumbled, then continued; "upon occasion, this dread ship of the skies will appear over their villages and spit out lightning and fire to punish them for their sins…"

"Good!" exclaimed Chassin, scowling darkly at the savage.

Gerom frowned at Chassin before proceeding; "though these natives have not seen the Sky-Ship in some time, apparently… but then, it would seem that they have been avoiding trespass upon the domain of this Laughing God also, nor have they raised any of their settlements close to the bounds of his ruined city, Larcheen…"

" _Larcheen!_ " the savage moaned, shuddering…

Gerom asked the prisoner something pointed and he replied haltingly. "He thinks that this ship which sails through the air travels there, to the city which the yellow-haired Aes Sedai sent her eagle to tell us of… but he is unsure." Gerom eyed the savage speculatively, then shrugged. "I do not believe he can tell us anything else of worth…" he touched the spear-haft projecting above his broad back. "Shall I wake him now?"

"No! Let me do it!" Chassin insistently demanded, drawing his knives from their sheaths. The savage eyed them both coldly, not seeming to care that his life evidently hung in the balance.

Cohradin shook his head. "No, knife-brothers, I said I would let the dirty fellow live and shall keep my word… _ji'e'toh_ requires it." Chassin made a rude, snorting sound, which Cohradin pretended not to hear. "Let someone else wake this savage from the Dream," he further pontificated, being overtly magnanimous.

Now it was Gerom's turn to snort, though more quietly. "For these wretched people, it would seem existence is less of a dream, more of a nightmare," he observed.

Cohradin shrugged, disinterested in such speculation, and gave the prisoner a hard shove, causing him to stumble in the direction of the trees. "You go now!"

"Wait!" Chassin dug a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it to the lingering savage, who neatly caught it, then looked surprised, as though wondering why he had done so. "Eat that!" Chassin commanded, then helped the freed captive on his way with a kick. The native eyed them confusedly over his shoulder as he staggered off toward the forest, weaving slightly, following in the footsteps of his fellow cannibals who had earlier fled the unequal fight. He paused at the treeline, gave the _Sovin Nai_ a final stare that held hostility, but also curiosity, and then was gone.

Cohradin realised that he was yet holding the savage's obsidian knife and made to toss it into the bushes… but on closer inspection, the dagger proved to be not quite so crudely-made as he had first thought. Running a thumb over the edge of the glassy blade revealed it to be razor-sharp, also. Cohradin sucked at the line of blood on the skin of his digit thoughtfully, then tucked the dark weapon into his belt. He had thrown his own knife into the sea when he decided to become _Da'tsang_ , after all… this cannibal-dagger might prove useful for something.

"What was that which you gave to the savage, Chassin?" Gerom wondered.

Chassin shrugged. "Some dried _walaru_ meat that I cured before we left."

"Why?"

"To encourage the carribal-"

" _Cannibal!_ "

"-cannibal to eat something other than his own kind, of course!"

Cohradin pulled a sour face. "Doubtless, the ill-taste of the _walaru_ creatures was what originally caused these fools to wish to eat each other in stead?" he speculated.

"Presumably," Gerom agreed.

Chassin blinked. "The _walaru_ flesh tastes fine to me," he muttered.

Cohradin shook his head in mild exasperation, then stared up into the air once more. Now only his special red eye could detect the distant Sky-Ship. He turned to the others; " _Sovin Nai_ of Wet Sands… the hunt resumes!" Cohradin grinned his alarming grin. "Let us _run!_ "

* * *

"This really is _too_ provoking!" Captain Ysmet growled, bewailing their situation and raising her fist, preparatory to pounding it furiously upon the rail.

"Splinters!" Rashiel warned.

Ysmet paused, peering down at the carven teak suspiciously. It _did_ look somewhat smoother than it had, so she supposed Raab must have given it a cursory going-over with sandpaper, in-between his other lowly duties, but even so… Ysmet lowered her clenched hand, scowling. An empty, wooden bucket stood nearby, so she vented her anger by kicking that instead. The bucket sailed across the quarterdeck, colliding with the mahogany housing of the large, spoked wheel set at its centre, and bounced off. The Sea Folk Warder, Jabal, stood at the wheel, his current station… dark, watchful eyes followed the bucket as it rolled away. He declined to comment.

"Is it time?" Rashiel enquired.

Ysmet nodded sullenly. "Let us be away, whilst the easterly wind holds," she muttered, glancing about the quarterdeck, looking for something else that she might kick. The rat-like visage of Raab rose into view from the hatchway abaft the wheel; he blinked his shifty eyes in the bright noonday sunlight. "You'll do!" Ysmet snarled, taking a threatening step toward Raab's curly head, which presented a tempting target, and drawing back her boot. Raab yelped in alarm and swiftly ducked from sight, vanishing back into the below-decks gloom from which he had emerged.

Rashiel chuckled. "Poor Raab! You know; he 'minds me of one of those 'gophers' that live on the Caralain Grass, they are always sticking their cute little furry heads up out of holes and then popping them straight down again!"

Jabal Gaidin made an amused snorting sound. The Ebou Dari women eyed him coolly and he swiftly resumed his composure.

"Tend to your duties, _Atha'an Miere!_ " snapped the Lady Ysmet.

Rashiel Sedai sniffed disparagingly. "Men are always eavesdropping on that which does not concern them!" she whispered to her Noblewoman friend. Loudly.

Jabal rolled his eyes at this, tattooed hands tightening on the wheel. "I should be only too glad to assume my steering responsibilities as Quartermaster," he declared, ostensibly to no-one in particular, "were we not _still_ riding at anchor, and much of the morning gone!"

Captain Ysmet scowled, though privately she was forced to concede that Jabal Gaidin had a point… time was wasting, they should have set off long-since. But there was one, slight problem… the sole member of her crew who claimed to know the way to Larcheen had vanished! " _Gen!"_ Ysmet uttered this ill-omened name as though it were a curse, then recalled with a shudder the behaviour of their addled Guide whilst they were docked in Illian, when he would oft vanish for days at a time, lost amidst the stews and vice-dens of the Perfumed Quarter, drunk and incapable! Well, _more_ incapable... "Where in the Winds have you absconded to _this_ time?!"

" _I_ don't know!" Rashiel answered, exasperated.

"I wasn't talking to _you_ , Rashiel!"

"Who _were_ you talking to then?"

"Gen, of course!"

"Oh. Well, I rather doubt that he can hear you… wherever he is…"

"The one named 'Gen' went away with the Nightwatcher," revealed a clear, high voice. Ysmet turned, scowling, as Manda lithely ascended the ladder-like steps to the quarterdeck. "We Shaido would have gone also, but _Vron'cor_ bid us remain." She shrugged. "The Nightwatcher did not wish the cheese-eater's company either, but the strange and confused former- _Souvraniene_ followed after him anyway…" Manda's brow furrowed; "an odd fellow, this Gen! Yesterday morn, he spied on me from the bushes whilst I bathed myself in water, as soft Wetlanders do, then ran away when I demanded to know his intent!"

"Oh, Gen does that sort of thing all the time," Rashiel airily explained, "it was annoying at first, but one gets used to it…" Manda blinked, then shrugged again.

" _Gen!_ " Ysmet cursed once more, "when I get my hands on that odious little lecher, I shall string him up by the ankles and flog him till High Chasaline!"

"The disciplining of the crew is _my_ duty, Captain," the Bosun firmly reminded Ysmet as he climbed up to the quarterdeck to join them, standing beside Manda. The Spear-Maiden promptly slipped a proprietary arm through his, making the big Tairen sailor shift uncomfortably. Ysmet frowned at the unlikely couple and Manda smiled goadingly back at her. The Bosun sucked his gold-chased teeth thoughtfully. "Though now that I think on it," he mused, "the cat o' thirteen tails was lost in the wreck, along with much else…" he eyed Ysmet enquiringly, "…should I fashion a new whip, milady?"

Ysmet shook her head curtly. "Do not trouble to, boatswain… I have changed my mind. Flogging is far too _good_ for Gen… much more merciful than he deserves!"

"Keel-hauling?" the Bosun suggested.

"Feed him to the lionfishes?" Jabal speculated.

Ysmet continued to shake her head.

"Place a scorpion in his mouth and then sew it shut!" Manda urged.

"I could spank Gen briskly with the One Power?" Rashiel offered.

Ysmet kept up her mute refusal, long braid whisking back and forth against her shoulders. "No… no, for desertion, none of that is severe enough… I shall consider all options…" her eyes narrowed decisively. "Besides, Rashiel, I believe that you have another use for your channeling, do you not? Be about it, forthwith!"

"I _am_ Aes Sedai you know," Rashiel objected as she turned to gaze toward the shore, "the Sisterhood of the White Tower is unaccustomed to taking brusque orders from those not of their sorority…" she sneered over her shoulder at Ysmet, "…even if they _do_ stand fifth-in-line to the bloody Throne of Winds!"

" _Fourth_ ," corrected Ysmet testily, "cousin Cheslin got his foolish self killed in a duel last winter, remember? And on the deck of _my_ ship, you shall hop to it when I give you an order, Rashiel _Sedai_ , or your rump shall sting for it, my girl!"

Rashiel muttered something most uncomplimentary under her breath, pitched too low for Ysmet to discern, fortunately. The young Aes Sedai then plucked a dark, heart-shaped jewel from the pocket of her crimson gown, clutching it firmly whilst squinting across the intervening waves at the beach and beyond, focusing her attention on the score of rude huts and cabins surrounded by the vestiges of a palisade, built amongst the dunes nearest the forest. "Are you _sure_ you want me to do this?" Rashiel absently queried, clearly drawing deep on the True Source, since she had that distracted air of hers that Ysmet was accustomed to seeing, prior to channeling _saidar_.

"Yes!" Ysmet responded briskly, "I'll not leave anything behind that the savage cannibals might make use of… and _we_ won't be coming back here, I can tell you that for nought! Now, Aes Sedai… burn our bloody bridges!"

"Aye-aye Captain!" Rashiel answered with some irony, and raised her free hand, serpent-ring flashing in the sunlight, gesturing evocatively. Immediately; a dozen head-sized balls of fire sprang into existence, hovering above the waves just beyond the hull of their anonymous ship. The sailors on the maindeck paused in their tasks to stare at the blazing orbs in wary wonder. Up on the foredeck, Lord Thaeus had been giving the Sharan youth Hamadi a lesson in the art of the blade; both male-channelers lowered their practice-swords of bundled, thin wooden lathes, to gaze upon the flaming spheres also. There was a certain fascination in their eyes, but incomprehension also… _saidar_ and _saidin_ being mutually exclusive, this was a feat of channeling that they could only admire, not emulate.

At the wheel, Jabal Gaidin blinked in confusion. "Um..?"

Rashiel grinned fiercely, then gestured again, sweeping her hand forcefully forth, toward the abandoned camp. As one, the flaming balls sped forward, shooting toward the shore, growing in size and altering in shape as they did so, assuming the dimensions and appearance of blazing, spinning cartwheels. The fiery missiles streaked unerringly over the dunes toward their target. Some struck the damaged stockade at various points along its length – the logs of the palisade roared into flame at the impact, burning fiercely. The rest of the scorching discs plunged into the walls and roofs of cabins, transforming them instantly into molten furnaces. Within moments, the destruction was complete, their former encampment rendered an immolated ruin, sparks flying outward and thick, black smoke boiling up into the sky.

Rashiel leant on the rail, breathing heavily. Ysmet approvingly patted her friend on the back. "Well done, Rashiel!" she cried, "why, that was _most_ impressive. I have never seen you summon more than a couple of those fiery things before!"

Rashiel smiled wearily, waving the dark jewel at Ysmet. "Well, I did not have my _angreal_ then, did I?" She took a deep breath, rubbing at her brow, "though I think I overdid it a little…"

Ysmet shrugged. "It accomplished our purpose…" She sensed a presence right behind her; turning, expecting to see the Bosun, she frowned at the sight of Jabal Gaidin loitering at her back, his shocked gaze fixed upon the smoking conflagration. "Back to your station, Quartermaster!" Ysmet snapped.

Jabal did not seem to have heard. "Uh… I did not know that Rashiel Sedai intended to do _that_ …" he mumbled, "to burn the... with... with weaves of Fire…"

"What of it?" Ysmet demanded, noting that whilst everyone aboard was staring at the blazing spectacle, Jabal seemed unduly perturbed by the sight.

"I…" Jabal's mouth moved, but seemed unable to form further words.

"Twas _my_ idea, in point of fact… to deny the antithetical natives… a base of, eh… of… that is to say… logistical…" Ysmet trailed-off, beginning to experience a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, occasioned by Jabal's expression. Usually, the Sea Folk Warder just looked impassive, like most _Atha'an Miere_ – a far from emotive people, on the whole. But currently, he appeared worried. _Very_ worried. Clearly, something was wrong… but what? "Why do you overly concern yourself with this, Jabal Gaidin?"

Jabal stared at Ysmet, eyes wide. " _Because_ , Sailmistress, Lord Dagnon and the Twins went _back_ to the camp to ensure that the deserter was not hiding therein!"

" _What?!_ " Rashiel whirled around, gaping at Jabal in horror, her exhaustion entirely forgot and replaced by panic. " _Dagnon?_ Oh-no! Light, _no!_ "

All eyes turned back to the fire-blasted encampment, the blazing ruins, shrouded in smoke. Rashiel channeled frantically – immediately, the manifold flames died-down considerably, though the damage had already been done, it would seem.

"Why did you not _tell_ me they had gone there, you storm-tossed Sea Folk fool?!" Ysmet angrily shouted.

"You did not _ask_ , Shorebound Siren-of-the-Sands!" Jabal yelled back.

"What have I _done?!_ " Rashiel wailed theatrically, the strength going out of her legs… she sat down abruptly, her bottom thumping onto the deck.

"I had no idea that Rashiel Sedai meant to torch the camp! Neither did my Sword-brothers!" Jabal had pushed past, was gripping the quarterdeck rail, staring wildly toward the guttering fires flickering amongst charred logs.

"I have slain the love of my life! I shall never forgive mys-" Rashiel's self-recrimination came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening, full lips parting in a gasp of shock… and delight. "Hold! I can _sense_ Dagnon through the Warder Bond… thank the Creator, he yet lives!"

Whilst helping Rashiel struggle back to her feet, Ysmet breathed a sigh of relief, though was still unsure about the fate of the pretty Twins… a tragedy, should those beautiful brothers have been roasted whole like a pair of plucked pullets!

Rashiel was evincing great confusion. "My Gaidin is seemingly unharmed, no-less… he has not taken any hurts nor burns, I should feel it myself if he had… how in the Winds did-?"

" _Look!_ " Jabal shouted, pointing toward the shore. They looked. Three figures were staggering through the wreaths of smoke, stepping awkwardly over smouldering timbers, quitting the scorched ruins of the camp. As they began to stumble slowly down the dunes toward the shoreline, all could see that it was indeed Lord Dagnon and the Twin Warders, Aebel and Blaek. The trio of Gaidin looked extremely damp and sooty, dazed also, but somehow still alive.

"Quick!" Ysmet commanded, "launch a bloody boat!"

On the beach, they leapt from the longboat before it was even drawn up onto the sand by the oarsmen, splashing through waist-high surf and racing up into the dunes to meet the improbable survivors of the inferno. The Warders awaited them silently, swaying slightly, faces blank but eyes staring, evincing the demeanour of men who have just come through a terrible battle, a severe slaughter… somehow, unscathed.

"Dagnon!" Rashiel cried, flinging herself into the rubbery arms of her Warder, "I am so glad that you did not get scorched into cinders! I feared that… that…" she drew away from the feeble embrace of the tall Murandian Lord. "Uh! You're covered in soot, from head to toe…" Rashiel stared down in dismay at the black and slimy streaks marring her fine, silken robe, "…and now, so am I!"

"Yes, Rashiel," Dagnon wearily and acidly replied, "of a certainty I am much besmirched with stains and scorches… mayhap, because I have just narrowly avoided being _scalded_ to _death_ … by _you_ , I would presume?!"

Rashiel was not paying attention. "It will take ages to clean this off," she grumbled, plucking at the soiled silk, "if it even _can_ be cleansed…" Dagnon sighed.

Ysmet ran a critical eye over the smoke-soiled Gaidin… dark with soot, clothing charred, torn… and wet. _Extremely_ wet. "How in the Seventeen Seas did you sorry specimens survive _that?_ "

The Mayener brothers, faces comically blotched with sooty stains, blinked in unison, then eyed Dagnon, who spoke up tiredly; "we were just heading for the gate, or where the gate used to be, when we heard the fiery wheels spinning toward us…"

"We thought a _Madman_ was attacking," the Twins added simultaneously, giving Rashiel a reproving look. She had the good grace to blush.

"No… just a Madwoman!" was Ysmet's cheerful rejoinder, as she attempted to dispel the accusatory mood.

Rashiel glared at the Noblewoman and sniffed. "The whole thing was _your_ bloody idea, Ysmet!" she hissed.

Dagnon shrugged his broad shoulders. "Well, there being little else to do, at my urging we ran directly to the water cistern and leapt in… then stayed under the surface until we could hold our breaths no longer…" he thought about it, shrugged again. "There is not really anything else to say about the untoward incident…"

Aebel and Blaek added;

"Except that we-"

"-did not find Gen."

"Curses!" Ysmet muttered, feeling lost in a strange land without her Guide. Though come to think on it, she felt that way even when Gen _was_ around…

"I am _so_ sorry, Dagnon-dear!" Rashiel Sedai murmured tremulously, pressing close to her beloved Warder once more, despite his sootiness. Lord Dagnon draped an arm about her shoulders, to show that all was more-or-less forgiven. The Twins stared at Rashiel expectantly. Eventually, she noticed. "Oh, and I apologise to you also, Aebel and Blaek," she added offhand, "had I known that you were all in the camp, well…"

"Think nothing of it, Rashiel Sedai."

"Our quick wits and speedy reactions preserved our lives."

Dagnon eyed the Twins coolly. "Jumping into the cistern was _my_ plan!" he reminded them, "you pair of oilfishers were just standing there, gaping and wool-gathering!"

Aebel and Blaek frowned, then opened their mouths at the same time, preparing to argue the point…

"Never mind that!" Ysmet interjected, "all's well that ends well, no harm done and least said, soonest mended..." Her light-brown eyes turned to her new ship, still anchored out beyond the reef where the masts and hull of her former command yet arose from the waves; a silent reminder of the perils of a storm-tossed lee-shore. "High-time we got underway, methinks…"

They tramped back down through the dunes toward the waiting longboat, the smoking ruin that the castaways had called home for several months languishing, already forgot, behind them. "How far can you take us along the coast, Jabal Gaidin?" Ysmet quietly asked her Quartermaster as they walked together.

Jabal frowned. "I have only been so westerly as this 'Isle of the Spire.' In regard to navigating beyond that point, we will be sailing blind…"

Ysmet frowned also. "We shall wish to avoid that cursed island and those troublesome Hawx-people…" she muttered.

Jabal nodded, scowling darkly. "Aye, Sailmistress… but should I yet live, then on the way back from Larcheen I mean to stop at their Castle… a thieving, smirking fellow named 'Kor' has my _sword_ , and he shall much regret his villainy when I impale him 'pon its blade, like a spitted sprat!"

"And I shall aid you in retrieving the honoured sword of your House and punishing those brigands for their larceny, Master Lionfish!" promised Dagnon, clapping Jabal upon the shoulder. The _Atha'an Miere_ Gaidin nodded his appreciation.

"We shall come too!" pledged the Twins, who evidently also had a score to settle with their former captors, the vestiges of the Hawkwing's lost Eastern Army.

Ysmet glared at the intrusive Warders who – as bloody usual! – had been shamelessly eavesdropping upon the Captain conferring with her Quartermaster. They did not appear to notice.

"There is the Axe, also," Aebel pointed-out.

"The _Howling_ Axe," Blaek added, providing additional detail.

"Whatever is that?" Rashiel wondered.

The Twins answered with enthusiasm;

"A Hero's weapon, Power-forged…"

"…of eldritch, silvered metal, and four-bladed…"

"…the enchanted axe wielded by the elder brother of Naythan Gaidin…"

"…a giant of a man, he who fought and fell in the War with the Shadow!"

Ysmet raised an elegant eyebrow. "The Shieldman told you of this?"

"Indeed he did, Lady Ysmet," the Twins answered in concert.

"Sounds… interesting," Rashiel commented doubtfully, "an enchanted axe…" She shook her head, then enquired; "but what are the Hawx doing with _that?_ "

"Thieves and net-snatchers!" Jabal declared disapprovingly, as they approached the beached longboat, "they steal all that is not nailed-down and are less trustworthy even than my light-fingered cousin Raab!"

"Hey!" objected Raab, lingering by the boat, evidently within earshot.

"Sorry, cousin," Jabal apologised, "in my righteous anger, I misspoke… these Hawx are clearly _worse_ than you!"

"My thanks, cousin!"

"Though not by _much_ …"

Raab scowled. Jabal turned back to Ysmet as they paused by the longboat, at something of a loss. "Yes, Naythan Gaidin will certainly wish to accompany us when we return to the isle of these looting, pillaging Hawx, since it would seem that he sets great store by his brother's ancient weapon…" he frowned, furiously, "though first, I _must_ find Renn, and free her!"

"And we, Shrina!" the Twins chorused.

Ysmet sighed. "But without Gen or any other Guide, we may not have an easy time finding this lost ruin of Larcheen…"

Rashiel shrugged. "Given that it is reputedly the _only_ city left in this benighted land, then surely there must be _someone_ who knows where it-"

" _Squaaa!_ "

Rashiel ducked as a large and brightly-plumed bird swept low over her head. "Bloody-ashes!" she swore.

The parrot alighted on the Bosun's broad shoulder and began to preen its multicoloured feathers. "There you are, Syed!" the Tairen sailor declared, scratching its feathery head. It pecked him hard. The Bosun grinned, then sucked his sore finger.

Manda released the Bosun's arm, glaring up at the ill-tempered creature. "I like not that bird," she growled, touching her knife-hilt, eyes narrowing.

"Why?" enquired the Bosun.

The parrot cocked its head, peering down at Manda with a dark eye. " _Strumpet!_ " it squawked.

Manda scowled. " _That_ is why," she snarled, "your bird is a… a _rude_ bird!"

Ysmet chuckled. "I don't know, I rather like it," she commented, smiling tauntingly at Manda, who eyed her dangerously.

The parrot swivelled its head, regarding Ysmet. " _Harlot!_ " it declared. Now it was Ysmet's turn to glare at the offending bird.

Rashiel sniggered. "Well, it is certainly a fine judge of character!" she observed with a grin.

The parrot eyed Rashiel. " _Trollop! Squaaa!_ "

Rashiel frowned, and sniffed disapprovingly.

"Are you bringing that vile bird with us, boatswain?" Ysmet demanded.

The Bosun shrugged, causing the parrot perched on his shoulder to squawk in protest and peck viciously at his ear. The big Tairen ignored it. "A speaking bird would cause quite a stir back in Tear," he observed, "should we ever make safe landfall in a southern port, but it is up to you, Captain… if Syed offends, then-"

" _Squaaa! Stormfather!_ " the parrot loudly squawked.

Jabal and Raab narrowed their dark eyes, staring suspiciously at the overly-talkative avian. " _That_ is what the accursed Waketa call the Dark One!" Jabal accused.

"The Shadowsworn bird is ill-omened, Sailcaptain!" Raab warned, "twill bring bad luck!"

The Bosun shook his head, making it difficult for the parrot to continue nibbling at one of the gold rings set in his ear, though it persisted. "Syed is no Darkfriend, milady, for all that his former-Master was a Child of the Storm… I have been discouraging him from saying such things and even begun teaching him _new_ words… listen!" The Bosun poked the parrot to gain its attention, receiving another peck for his trouble. " _Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of-?_ " The bird stared at him, silently. The Bosun tried again; " _a bottle of-?_ "

" _Rum!_ " squawked the parrot. " _Squaaa!_ "

"Excellent!" the Bosun encouraged, before prompting; "Praise the Divine-?"

" _Creator!_ "

"Good lad!" the Bosun approved, stroking the talking-bird's feathers. It nipped at his fingers viciously.

Ysmet blinked. "Well, now _that_ is out of the way, let us-"

" _Squaaa! Praise Stormfather!_ "

"No, Syed!" the Bosun chided, "do not say that!"

" _Curse Creator!_ " The parrot disobediently sprang from the Bosun's wide shoulder, colourful wings flapping vigorously, circling over his head. " _Curse Dragon! Praise Stormfather! Squaaa! Praise Great Lord!_ "

These proved to be the unfortunate parrot's final words. A brownish blur from above, a forceful impact, a burst of multicoloured feathers hanging in the air for a moment, before spiralling down to the sand… and it was over. All stared at the corpse of the objectionable bird, lying flat on its back, neck twisted awry… and the large eagle gripping its kill with powerful, rending talons, squawking in triumph.

"Syed…" the Bosun mumbled, regretfully.

"Good!" growled Manda, before eyeing her sailor-lover narrowly.

The eagle lowered its proud head and began to tear into the dead parrot with its cruel, hooked beak. "It's Renn's eagle!" Rashiel declared, when her surprise wore-off, "it came back!" She leaned closer, waving a hand to gain the feeding creature's attention. "Renn? Is that _you_ in there?" The eagle stared at the Aes Sedai disinterestedly for a moment, then resumed its gruesome meal. "I suppose not," Rashiel murmured, considering, then added; "of course not! If Renn were controlling the eagle then she would _never_ have killed that insulting and blasphemous bird, even if it _was_ a Friend of the Dark… Renn _loves_ animals!" Jabal nodded in confirmation, staring dolefully at the eagle.

"Even Shadowsworn parrots?" Ysmet asked tartly, feeling that things were getting a little ridiculous, "that is to say… Darkbirds? Parrots of the Darkness?"

"Yes, them too! Why, Bookworm even likes _ravens!_ "

Leaving the large eagle to its exotic feast, they splashed out to the longboat that the sailors had launched into the shallows, and were rowed swiftly back to their nameless ship. Once on board, Ysmet gave the order to weigh anchor, then strode up to the quarterdeck, Rashiel following, Dagnon looming right behind, her protective and sooty shadow. Jabal had preceded them and was already stood at his station, gripping the spoked wheel with tattooed hands, watching critically as down on the maindeck, the crew strained at the windlass, drawing the heavy anchor up from the seabed in response to the Bosun's shouted commands.

Ysmet noted Aebel and Blaek opposite on the foredeck, all-but obscured by the intervening masts… the handsome-yet-dangerous channelers, Lord Thaeus and Hamadi, were grinning at the Twin's besmirched and dishevelled appearance, making a show of attempting to dust them down. The Mayener brothers were presumably explaining what had befallen them, waving their arms about as they chattered; then, as one, all eyes turned toward the quarterdeck.

"Bloody men!" Rashiel muttered in aggrieved tones. Ysmet glanced at her Aes Sedai friend, raising an eyebrow; she was also watching the exchange. Rashiel continued; "doubtless, that pair of pretty peas are telling our two strapping mad-lads all about how I nearly cooked them to a crisp! Saying rude things about me… and _you_ as well, Ysmet, since it was mostly _your_ fault, after all… the menfolk are always such terrible _gossips!_ "

"You all-but baked _me_ too, Rashiel!" Dagnon reminded his Aes Sedai, "like a potato!"

"Shut-up, Dagnon! Don't be churlish! Anyone can make a mistake…"

"That eagle is back," Jabal observed, staring upwards. Ysmet followed the direction of his gaze. The bird-of-prey was now perched on the mizzen-top, high above, peering down at them with predatory yellow eyes, blood besmirching its beak. It squawked loudly, as if to attract their attention.

"What does it want?" Ysmet wondered.

"Are you _sure_ that isn't you in there, Renn?" Rashiel shouted up at the eagle, hands cupped around her mouth. It squawked again, an imperious sound. Then, the eagle extended its great wings and fell from the mast, soaring away from the vessel, pinions spread as it rode the air-currents with unconscious skill. Heading west.

"Anchor raised, Captain," the Bosun reported, glaring darkly up at the predatory bird that had slain and consumed his prized pet.

"Very-well, boatswain… hoist mains and staysails," Ysmet commanded, her distracted eyes still fixed on the eagle. She glanced back at Jabal; "set your heading due-west, Quartermaster," she ordered, entirely unnecessarily, but the Sea Folk Warder placed an obedient hand over his heart, then spun the wheel skilfully.

"The eagle returns," Rashiel reported.

Ysmet looked. The noble bird was indeed gliding back to the ship; it circled the quarterdeck once, twice, then with another loud and authoritarian squawk, flew west once more. "It is as though it wants us to follow it…" Ysmet mused.

Rashiel's eyes widened. "Of course! Why did I not think of it before? Renn has sent her eagle to show us the way – to lead us to Larcheen!"

Ysmet blinked. "Do you really think so?" Hope bloomed in her heart, at the prospect of having a guide after all… albeit a mute and feathered one! But now there was the chance that they might make right landfall at the dead city of the Madmen… and Roth would be awaiting her there. The opportunity of freeing those Aes Sedai friends of Rashiel's was equally a consideration… but over and above this, most of all, Ysmet badly wanted her husband back! Despite his faults… or perhaps even _because_ of them. Though far from the perfect partner, Roth nonetheless provided the essence of something that Ysmet needed, to be happy… whatever _that_ was! Roth completed her, made her feel like a whole person; she would not be content until her foolish-yet-adorable Gleeman was back in her arms. And if any red-masked _Souvraniene_ tried to stand in the way of this reunion, then they would swiftly find themselves kissing the business-end of her rapier!

Captain Ysmet scowled ferociously, whilst at the behest of sailors swarming along the yardarms, sails broke out aloft, canvas spreading and stretching taught in the easterly wind. Foam frothed against the hull and the ship began to roll with the motion of the waves as they finally got under way.

"Follow that eagle!" Ysmet shouted. She should have felt foolish for giving so absurd an order… but for some reason, did not. _Eagle_ … her mouth dropped open, eyes widening. "Of course!"

Rashiel Sedai, steadying herself on the pitching deck by leaning against the reassuring solidity of Dagnon Gaidin, arched an elegant eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I… I _finally_ know what to name our ship!"

"Oh..? What?"

Ysmet pointed forward, indicating the great, golden-brown bird-of-prey, powerful wings beating steadily, flying several spans ahead of the bowsprit, leading the way to distant Larcheen. She pointed at _the Eagle_. "What do you _think?!_ "

* * *

" _Ellyth!_ Ellythia Sedai?! Are you there?"

N'aethan's voice resounded through the infinite darkness… no twinkling points of light to indicate sleeping dreamers, no mirrored reality reflecting the World of the Wheel in an endless variety of possibilities and impossibilities… and no Ellythia Desiama, Aes Sedai of the Ajah that was, apparently, blue. N'aethan sighed gustily as the echoes faded into empty nothingness. No _him_ either, in fact, when he really considered it… not in any kind of physicality at least, just his consciousness, his will… and his words. "If you can hear me, Ellythia Sedai, take heart!" N'aethan called encouragingly, "I shall come for you ere long, Mistress of my Soul!"

N'aethan blinked, though presently possessed no actual eyes to blink with. Where had _that_ phrase originated? It sounded like something from a light romantic opera of the sort he had always avoided, preferring the more serious tales of tragedy and retribution. But somehow, what he had said felt _right_...

"I suppose that I _must_ be in love!" N'aethan muttered, for all that he had never found himself in this particular emotional state before. Romantic love for another, at least, as opposed to the filial love he had felt for Father (as well as, at a distance, the Dragon), the maternal love that had undoubtedly existed between himself and Latra Sedai, though never acknowledged… or brotherly love either, which had not really been reciprocated, since Taw had only known how to hate things, not love them.

Added to which, there was that bit about his 'soul.' This was something that N'aethan rather doubted the existence of, in a personal sense at least. Ordinary people had souls, he believed, but Lightborn most probably lacked this mysterious spiritual accoutrement… the Divine Creator had _not_ fashioned him from clay and then breathed life into him, as the Shaido Aiel claimed. No, Father had made him, in an altogether less fanciful way than that described in those foolish and inaccurate stories concerning 'the Nightwatcher' which, for several millennia, the _Da'shain_ had been telling to their children. Not for the first time, N'aethan wondered where such absurd faery tales had originated? He certainly held certain suspicions concerning the identity of their ancient author…

N'aethan could think of little else to say, even in the unlikely event that his beloved Ellyth could possibly hear him… so he settled for; "till next we meet… farewell, sweet Servant of All!" Then, he made himself wake up.

N'aethan blinked open his strange eyes and sat upright, rubbing at a crick in his neck and yawning widely behind a bare hand. The river flowed past to either side, too close for comfort. N'aethan was fastidious about water, preferred it when it was hot. The interior of the ridiculous _coracle_ was cramped, unsurprisingly, but Gen was sitting as far from his Lightborn passenger as possible, perched at the end of the rough plank which served as a bench for this odd, circular boat.

N'aethan eased himself onto the bench also, moving carefully, though the _coracle_ tipped unsteadily to the side even so. Gen watched warily, pressing a little closer to the bent withies and ox-hide that formed the meagre hull. In one grimy hand he held the paddle, steering them in a desultory way, in the other something that he was eating, holding it to his mouth and gnawing slowly with his few remaining teeth.

"Where are we?" N'aethan wondered, glancing to either side and seeing more of the same dull scenery that had been drifting by when he decided to take a nap and visit _Tel'aran'rhiod_ … tall reeds lining the banks of this unknown river, scrubby trees and bushes beyond, rocky hills rising in the distance. Gen did not answer, continuing to eat, dark eyes fixed on N'aethan with caution… but also, a touch of reverence. "Did you not _hear_ me?" the Lightborn demanded, "I said…" he trailed-off. Gen had placed a gagging hand over his mouth and was shaking his head back and forth. "Oh, of course… I forgot." N'aethan sighed. "Very well, you may speak, provided that you do not irritate me further!"

Some chance of _that_ … Gen was easily the most irritating person N'aethan had ever met, even worse than Uncle Gwili! At an earlier point in this interminable journey aboard the absurd boat, Gen had become so annoying that N'aethan was forced to forbid him from speaking. For his own good. Clearly, it was in Gen's best interests to let blessed silence reign awhile, for otherwise N'aethan might have been forced to do something savagely fatal to the unbelievably obtuse and confusing old fool! To ensure Gen's compliance in the matter of muteness, N'aethan might have mentioned one or two of the things he had done to captured Beastmen in his time, to gain information under duress… the nervously silenced castaway had taken the hint.

"Did you slumber well, King o' the Cats?" Gen enquired.

"No. And cease calling me that," N'aethan muttered wearily and ineffectually, knowing that Gen would continue to address him with feline-themed names no matter what he said, or even threatened. The lunatic did not seem to be able to stop himself from doing so… forbidding the practice had become little more than a reflexive act by now.

"You did mumble and grumble in your sleep, Mog Majesty," Gen reported helpfully, returning to his repast.

"I did neither!" N'aethan denied, incensed, " _especially_ the grumbling… I _never_ grumble or complain, or whinge and whine, though the Creator-knows I have been given more than enough reason to…" Gen shrugged, gnawing away. "Besides, I was not really asleep," N'aethan continued, speaking to himself as much as to his fellow mariner of stupid round boats, "I went to _Tel'aran'rhiod_ to look for…" N'aethan fell silent, staring at Gen, who was clearly not listening to him. The Lightborn's stomach growled. "What is that you are eating?" he enquired.

"It do be the finest of cheeses, Prince Puss… did you wish some?"

N'aethan sniffed, eyeing with distaste the crumbly, yellowy green lump that had been thrust toward him. "It smells rotten," he observed, "looks mouldy, too…"

"Oh, it does be a little aged, my Cat King, but all the better for it!" Gen continued to gnaw and munch with relish, his lack of teeth not seeming to hinder him.

N'aethan frowned. "I think I'll pass…" He peered over the side, squinting down into the murky water. "I wonder if there are any edible fish in this river?"

"There do be no fishes left, for the wicked crocodilians did eat 'em all up!"

"They are called 'crocodiles' you eccentric nincompoop!" N'aethan growled, then narrowed his eyes at a flash of movement beneath the surface, swept a hand down into the river, claws spread, deftly scooping out a broad, flat fish. He caught it neatly by the tail and slammed its head against the side of the boat, killing it instantly.

"That there must be one fishy as did get away from them hungersome crocs," Gen commented owlishly.

"Well, it did not escape from _me_ ," N'aethan muttered, raising his catch to his mouth with both hands and sinking sharp teeth into its flesh. He chewed and swallowed, methodically. Raw fish was not his favourite food, but it would do for now. Gen watched the Lightborn eat awhile, before returning to his elderly piece of cheese, which had clearly seen better days. Still, each to their own… and given that N'aethan rather suspected Gen of being a former-cannibal in addition to a former- _Souvraniene,_ then it could, of course, always be worse. But then, that might well be said about most things…

Twilight had begun to encroach upon them by the time N'aethan finished his piscine meal. After tossing the fishbones into the river and wiping his hands clean on Gen's _walaru_ -skin cloak when the wearer wasn't looking, the Lightborn recalled his unanswered question… "Gen?"

"Yes, King Cat?"

"Call me not by that name. Where are we right now?"

Gen blinked, then smirked provokingly. "Upon the river?" he ventured.

"I know that!" N'aethan took a deep, calming breath. "How long till we reach Larcheen?"

"It do no be long…"

" _How_ long?"

Gen looked uncomfortable, then leant forward, his eyes crossing a little, hands gesturing fluidly as he spoke; " _in truth, I know not quite the sum of it, in most precise measure of time, for it hast been long indeed since last I journeyed unto the City of Blackest Midnight…_ "

N'aethan gaped, his mouth falling open, sharp teeth flashing. Gen was using the High Speech! With the thick local accent, granted, and lacking inflection or much in the way of syntax, but even so… for once, the addled castaway sounded almost civilised!

Gen continued with his wordy answer, adopting an oddly lecturing tone; " _though I would surmise a further day of river travel to the Great Bay and thence, we might venture forth upon the estuary of Larcheen itself, in the expectation of-_ "

" _You are speaking the High!_ " N'aethan exclaimed in the same ancient tongue, bringing the exposition to an abrupt halt.

Gen blinked. "I do be talking the high _what?_ " he wondered, slipping back into his rustic approximation of the Vulgar.

N'aethan winced… it had been _so_ pleasant not having to listen to that awful pidgin speech, albeit for only the space of a couple of sentences! "The _Old Tongue_ ," the Lightborn impatiently specified, "you actually spoke to me in a tolerably sophisticated manner!"

Gen frowned. "Which I does do that betimes," he muttered, "use the native talk of _Aisle Souvraniene_ without a-knowing of it…"

"Why do you not speak it _all_ of the time?" N'aethan demanded, adding; "I certainly _wish_ that you would!"

Gen shook his head vehemently. "Nay, Rightful Ruler of Catkind, 'tis not meetsome to so do! Which I do far prefer the civil tongue of the Northlands, of fair Illian where I did first learn the right speech of honest folk who do no eat manflesh!"

N'aethan stared silently at Gen for a long interval. Eventually, he spoke. "You're _weird!_ "

Gen blinked, then shrugged. " _Thou art a queer creature thyself, Chumira,_ " he muttered in the Old Tongue, seemingly unaware that he was doing so. Then, Gen sighed nostalgically, shifting back to the Vulgar; "ah… Illian! In all truthsomeness, 'tis an uncommon fine place!"

N'aethan sighed, shaking his head wordlessly for a moment, while Gen's eyes glazed over and he smiled lecherously, presumably at some pleasant memory. Or more likely, a remembrance that all might find unpleasant but he!

"If ever I return to the Westlands," N'aethan growled, "I shall avoid this 'Illian' like the plague… or worse, _dogs_ …" he shuddered, "…imagine! An entire city full of people who sound like _you_ , Gen!"

Gen's refutation of this low opinion of what seemed to be his favourite place was impassioned; "tis not near so bad as all that, Cat King! I did enjoy my time amongst the Illianers most fulsomely, and did drink much ale and play at games of chance in the District of Perfumes, where bosomy ladies of the night do profusely loiter!"

"Yes, I would imagine so…" N'aethan agreed vaguely, now correctly interpreting why Gen had been leering in that lewd manner whilst recalling his activities abroad!

Gen sighed regretfully. "In course, the luscious Captain Ysmet did no like it when I did go a-sneaking off the ship to carouse away the night… which she did oft send her hook-handed boatswain to find me and drag me back aboard the _Queen Mab_ , where she did scold me something fierce!"

"Serves you right!" N'aethan snapped, with righteous reproval.

"But good times they did be," Gen concluded, "and I would that I had stayed in dear old Illian, the Swampsome City… but I did needs return unto where I were birthed, for to die…"

"I don't see why you had to come back to the Land of the Madmen," N'aethan objected, "one can expire pretty much anywhere, so why did it have to be _here?_ "

Gen shrugged, unconcernedly. "Tis my destiny…" he whispered.

"Well, there's no avoiding _that_."

They drifted downriver for a while, each lost in his own thoughts, while the fiery orange sphere of the sun sank gradually beneath the eastern hills. N'aethan had no conception of the ideation occupying what passed for Gen's mind, and by the peculiar old man's dark expression, was glad of it… but for his part, the Lightborn could only dwell upon that which had obsessed him since receiving the message… the summons. His Sister. The Fourthborn. As well as her… companion.

Gen had been able to tell N'aethan but little concerning the Gholam which, given that he existed in a state of perpetual confusion, was hardly surprising. Only that it was indeed the same Gholam that had been sent to assassinate Father, the one that he had captured and reconditioned, forcing it to obey his will, as opposed to that of the Forsaken. One of the three Gholamin that had been made to resemble a female human… when N'aethan had still been Tro, during his adolescence, spying upon the dread Shadow-wrought killer in its cell, he had always been surprised by how… _ordinary_ it had looked. Nothing outwardly remarkable about it at all…

N'aethan had subsequently thought much the same of the male-appearing Gholam, one of the other three deadly Shadow-Constructs, the one that had been tasked with the elimination of Latra Sedai. _That_ Gholam had taken _some_ killing, and the young Lightborn had barely survived the encounter. N'aethan had a nasty feeling that disposing of Father's Gholam would be far more of an ordeal. The fell creature had inhabited the world for a millennia or more… it would have learned a great deal in that time, knowledge which would make it a much more formidable opponent that its Brother, whom N'aethan had bested when it was still newly-spawned and inexperienced.

But however difficult and dangerous a confrontation, whatever attrition he suffered as a result, N'aethan knew that he must destroy this Gholam, or die trying. It was too dangerous a Shadowspawn to be allowed to exist any longer, to walk free upon the earth… but over and above this consideration, N'aethan felt compelled to kill it by something more powerful than reason. Instinct. The countering and neutralisation of the Gholamin assassins was what he had been primarily made to do by Father, long ago, in another Age… and so, he must do it. It was why he had been Constructed. There was no choice, no other option, and he was entirely content with that state of affairs.

"Gen…"

"Yes, King Cat?"

"Avoid using that terminology forthwith. I was wondering… this Gholam that my Sister consorts with..?"

Gen shook his head firmly. "Nay, Noble Liege of Cattendom! The Queen o' Foxes does durst not _lay_ with the blood-beast, betimes! 'Tis not to her taste so to do!"

" _What?_ "

"Feir the Fourthborn did take lady-loves to share her blankets, on occasion, which I did find diverting to secretively look upon… there were this buxom young Witch with flaming-red hair, I do recall, the pretty Wolfmaid also, awhile… but never was the dread drinker o' gore her close-consort! Why, she-"

"Silence!" N'aethan scowled. "I am not speaking of _sex_ , you blithering imbecile! When I say 'consort' then I… I mean…" The Lightborn came to a gradual halt in his correction of Gen's misunderstanding, blinking rapidly as a wave of new awareness began to filter into his consciousness.

Gen stared at N'aethan curiously; "whichever does you mean, Catsome Highness? When I did live amongst 'em, the Fox Queen and her Shadowy servant, never did I have congress with the Gholam neither, perish the thought! I did no like the way it did oft look upon me, a-licking of its lips and thirsting after my bountiful blood! Why, once I-"

"Shut-up, Gen! I am trying to concentrate, damn-it!"

Gen's mouth closed, slowly and reluctantly. He watched the Lightborn expectantly, fidgeting, clearly wishing to continue with his peculiar reminisces. Then; N'aethan blinked slowly in a feline way, a gratified smile curving his lips, spreading across his wide-mouthed face whilst his eyes hooded, oval pupils expanding to all-but eclipse his cobalt irises. "What do be the jest, Thirdborn?" Gen wondered, stirred from silence by curiosity. In his preoccupation, N'aethan did not even notice that Gen had neglected to use one of the annoying cat-names in favour of his original designation.

" _Sammael_ …" N'aethan breathed.

Gen's eyes widened and he gasped. "Sammael!" he groaned, " _him!_ Even he! The scar-faced man who does come at night and stuff bad children in his sack!"

 _Sack?_ N'aethan blinked. "Huh?"

Gen grinned self-consciously. "Forgiveness, King Cat, but when I were a little lad, my old foster-ma, she did tell me spooksome tales of the Forsaken Ones at bedtime… which she did used to scare me off to sleep with 'em!"

"Oh? She did?"

"Twere most frightful indeed… some nights I did shake so hard 'neath the sheets that I did fall out of bed!"

"I see. Your foster-mother sounds like a charming woman."

Gen nodded, smiling in melancholy fashion. "Oh aye, she did be most alarming… you have the right of it, Cat King."

N'aethan scowled. "I did not say _alarming_ , I said… oh, never mind!" His thoughts returned to the knowledge that had so enigmatically come to him, as it always did for Lightborn, for his Brothers also, though Father had never understood quite why or how… which had annoyed the ancient Aes Sedai considerably. "Tel Janin Aellinsar," N'aethan mused, considering the tidings with great satisfaction.

"Who?" Gen wondered.

N'aethan ignored Gen, lost in consideration of the past, its effect upon the future… assuming that any of them _had_ a future, with _Tarmon Gai'don_ coming…

"Who?" Gen repeated.

"What are you, a bloody owl?" N'aethan snapped.

"No, I do no be a-"

"Tel Janin is _Sammael,_ you nitwit! Whoever _else?_ Or at least, he _was_ … that was his original name when he was Aes Sedai, before he turned traitor to the Light and went over to the Shadow in the fourth year of the War, the sneaky turncloak!"

Gen raised his sparse eyebrows, the faded tattoos on his forehead wrinkling. "Oh. Sammael… and his big scar, all upon his face…"

"Yes, the scar. The Dragon did that." N'aethan chuckled softly. "Middle Brother was there when Lews Therin Telamon duelled Sammael, gave the treacherous cur something painfully permanent to remember him by… Taw told me all about it later." N'aethan considered a moment, then muttered; "it was one of the few times I ever saw Middle-Bro _smile_ …"

Gen blinked. "So… what _about_ Forsaken Sammael then, O King of the Cats?"

"What indeed?" N'aethan grinned savagely. "He just got himself _killed_."

* * *

 **Denouement :** _ **Song of Somnolence**_

Jebedah the Laughing God gave _Shai'tan_ a farewell pat on the neck; the big stallion tossed his head proudly, dark mane flailing... then, with an echoing whicker, the remembrance-summoned steed galloped away, fading further into insubstance with each long stride until there was just the disembodied sound of plunging hooves in the distance. Finally, this too was gone. Jeb sighed, feeling lonely… but then collected himself, turned and strode confidently through the rectilinear portal that he had channeled into being, passing from the World of Dreams back into the World of the Wheel in the span of a single step.

As Jeb emerged into the glade, the very first thing he noticed was the _smoke_ … for a moment, he presumed that the tendrils of dark vapour, pregnant with ash, had originated from the burning of Stedding Dashai. But no, in the middle-distance Jeb could see that the variegated woodland of the Tia Avende Alantin _stedding_ yet rose into the dawn sky, the Great Trees towering beyond. Hardly any sign of a conflagration over there… he frowned.

Jeb considered leaving the gateway to _Tel'aran'rhiod_ open, tying-off the weave… long experience had taught him the value of always having a way out of any potentially dangerous situation, a line of retreat. But it might not be wise to provide an entrance to that otherworldly plane which could be utilised by anyone, or anything. A delicate balance existed within the Dream World; should any people or wild animals – or Ogier either, for that matter, whatever _they_ counted as – trespass through the portal, there could be serious repercussions. Jeb was well-aware that he was not the only traveller between differing realities to make extensive use of the World of Dreams, for the accomplishment of his goals. He had encountered others there before, with varying consequences, and did not particularly wish to incur the enmity of certain powers by allowing intrusive elements to physically access the Dreaming Realm, wherein they might cause chaos.

The _Forsaken_ in particular… for the time being, the Chosen of the Great Lord were to be avoided at all costs; Lanfear, Daughter of the Night, most especially. Jeb smiled coldly. For now, at least. If all went as planned, transpired as he had foreseen, then it would not matter much longer… although his Dark Design, near a century in the preparation, was greatly dependant on securing the co-operation of the captive Aes Sedai, possibly the Sharan woman also. Well, he would see…

Larcheen could wait for now, Jeb had other irons in the fire. His frown returned. The _fire_ that by all rights should have been raging fiercely through Stedding Dashai, dispossessing those accursed, meddling Treebrothers of their last stronghold within his Land! So… where was the smoke coming from, if not the burning of trees? Letting the gateway to the World of Dreams close firmly shut, the hovering portal revolving and diminishing into a line of silvery light that then winked from existence, Jeb went to find out…

The heavy, smoking clouds proved to be emanating from the south, closer to the _stedding_ , where the siege-lines of his invading force should be arrayed. Jeb made his way purposefully through the diminishing forest, then paused at the treeline, staring out across the wide expanse of grassland that bordered Stedding Dashai. " _Tsag!_ " he swore.

The origins of the smoke stood revealed; tents, stores, watchtowers and worst of all, his half-dozen massive catapults, the product of much ingenuity and labour… all had been burned to the ground. The vestiges of timber, ropes and cloth were just smouldering now, but had evidently been fully ablaze until relatively recently.

Scowling furiously, Jeb strode down to investigate further, descending into and wending his way through the intervening network of trenches, dug to encircle the _stedding_. No immediate sign of the slave-labourers who had done the digging, nor their overseers neither. At first. But then, rounding a corner within the earthworks, Jeb stepped upon a corpse.

Jeb drew back his boot, examining the dead man incuriously. Grimy, bearded, clothed in rags… one of the slaves, clearly; a native of this primitive land, with the crude facial tattoos and filed teeth common to his kind. He had been killed with a deep stab-wound to the chest, lay on his back, sightless eyes staring. Jeb moved on.

Further down the trench, Jeb discovered additional bodies, sprawled in attitudes of brutal demise; two more slaves and an overseer, his rough leather mask torn askew to partially reveal brutish, anonymous features. The slave-labourers bore similar fatal injuries to the first, the blood-stained flint blade still gripped in the overseer's stiff hand attesting that he had likely been responsible for one or both of these slayings… though from the bruises and livid striations about his neck, it was apparent that he himself had been forcibly strangled to death. It would seem that some sort of an uprising had occurred amongst the enslaved workforce…

Jeb raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching. "The slaves are _revolting!_ " he exclaimed, then chuckled softly, though it was a very old joke, and hardly original.

As Jeb proceeded toward Stedding Dashai, he discovered further signs of bloody turmoil; violently-slain overseers, soldiers and slaves… though not enough corpses of the latter to indicate that _all_ had perished here. Jeb scowled as he strolled past further dead slave-labourers, sneering down at them, speculating about the whereabouts of their fellows…

"Run-off back to their miserable hovels, I would expect," Jeb muttered resentfully. He would, in all probability, have done the same in their unenviable position. But _really_ , though! He had spared the wretched lives of those debased, cannibalistic savages, fed them, clothed them, put them to work at useful endeavours; a great improvement over the constant and pointless blood-feuds with rival tribes that would otherwise have occupied them… and how did they repay his kindness, his generosity? By killing their guards and decamping into the forest the first chance they got! The faithless ingrates!

Jeb paused briefly and blinked, considering… but _what_ had given the slaves that opportunity? What had happened here? He would need to ask someone, and soon… if he could find any of his men that yet lived. The vicinity of the siege-works seemed entirely bereft of his modest horde of soldiery… and as for the red-masked _Souvraniene_ who served their Laughing God so faithfully; well, the apparent absence of these individuals concerned Jeb most of all. He had sent a score of his Madmen to this place, for the purpose of besieging and destroying the _stedding_ , numbering several of the more powerful male-channelers amongst them. He had given the command to Singer, who had a talent for destruction, the intent and ability to accomplish his warlike ends. Jeb frowned again, continuing south.

When Jeb finally _did_ find somebody who yet lived, he rather wished that he had not, all things considered... At the end of the wide trench he traversed, carelessly passing more slashed and gory bodies as he made his way along, lay a broad ramp of beaten-earth, leading up out of the siege-works. Numerous torn corpses littered this slope, mostly slaves by the looks of it, with a few dead overseers interspersed amongst them… but Jeb's attention was primarily focused upon the lean, wiry figure, crouching over one of the slain.

Jeb hesitated, curiously eyeing the sole sign of life that he had discovered. Did he know him? He was unsure. Whoever it might be wore just a fur pelt wrapped about his waist, a long tail of pale, knotted hair extending down the line of his spine… and was completely covered in dark, dried blood!

Jeb raised a fist to his mouth and coughed pointedly, a throat-clearing sound to gain the attention of this gory fellow. The stratagem was successful – immediately, the feral man turned his head, revealing a notched ear with a rawhide cord pierced through the lobe, then rose swiftly, rounding menacingly on Jeb, fingers clawed, ferocious green eyes glaring from a snarling, bloody mask. Despite the obscured and gore-smeared features, Jeb instantly recognised this bestial personage as one of his own, a male-channeler and follower of the Laughing God.

"Howler!" Jeb cried, then because he was at something of a loss with regard to the Madman's current besmirched appearance, vaguely added; "uh… how goes it?"

The blood-drenched _Souvraniene_ stared at Jeb in hostile fashion, baring his teeth, the incisors sharpened to canine keenness. Though tall, his spare body corded with muscle, he stood poised on the balls of his feet, knees bent, leaning forward… this put their eyes on more-or-less the same level, despite Jeb's diminutive height. Then, the atavistic red-mask threw back his head and _howled_ , a wild and mournful sound that rose into the smoky sky.

" _Now_ I remember why you are called that," Jeb commented wryly. Howler lowered his gaze, resuming his aggressive stare, little hint of recognition in his eyes. Jeb noted two things; the corpse that Howler had been crouched over had a red, leathern mask obscuring the dead man's features and showed definite signs of _predation_. And in addition… "Where is your _torc_ , Howler?" Jeb demanded, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the Madman's bare and bloodstained neck. It would seem that he had removed his protective bronze _ter'angreal..._

In response, though it was not _much_ of a response, Howler again gave voice to his distinctive ululation, louder this time. Jeb sighed, repressing the urge to stick his fingers in his ears. It wasn't really Howler's fault, he allowed, all of that unpleasant noise; the crude fellow was an orphaned foundling and had been raised in the wilds by feral _dogs_ , after all… in fact, it was he who had tamed and trained the hunting hounds used by the Laughing God's forces, a useful contribution to the cause. However, what _was_ Howler's fault…

"You've been eating forbidden-flesh again!" Jeb accused, "that dead chap behind you – one of _us_ , I might add – has a distinctly _gnawed_ appearance!" Howler glanced back at the fallen _Souvraniene_ who bore his teeth-marks, shrugged broad shoulders, then pinned Jeb warningly with a bloodshot gaze, venturing a threatening movement forward. "Well, Howler? What do you have to say for yourself?" Howler gave no immediate answer, taking another loping step toward Jeb. He _could_ talk, after a fashion, they had taught him speech when he first came to them, cursed with the One Power… but Howler did not bother to speak very often, as a rule. "You _know_ that devouring people is _wrong_ , Howler, I forbade it! And as for taking off your torc… why, 'tis dangerous!"

Howler made a low, growling sound, then snarled in a rough and disused voice; "I wear dog-collar no more, Master! And eat what I wish, when I want! 'Tis my right!" For all his bravado, the gore-stained _Souvraniene_ then gave his mouth a swift wipe with the back of his hand… the blood he dislodged from his lips, unlike the rest of that which liberally coated him, looked fresh.

Jeb sighed, feeling dejected. It always troubled him, when this happened… Many of his followers were somewhat unstable, crazed even, it went with the territory… as was _he_ , if not more so, the Laughing God was forced to admit. But clearly, Howler had taken that final step over the edge of the precipice, leaving the firm foothold of sanity irrevocably behind as he fell deep into the abyss of madness. There was no coming back from that, only death awaited him now. Despite the dubious protection of the torc- _ter'angreal_ , it occurred amongst Jeb's red-masks often enough for him to recognise the distinctive signs – not that, in Howler's case, they were remotely obscure! – and but one remedy for the demented state of such an unfortunate existed…

Having cleansed his mouth, though it made little difference to his frankly horrifying appearance, Howler shot an oddly guilty glance at his Laughing God… but then, rebellion flared anew in his wild and staring eyes. "My _right!_ " he repeated, before howling up at the sky once more.

A rare fury arose within the Laughing God. " _Your right?_ " he thundered, "by what leave do you defy _me_ , you howling mutt?! Do you claim Godhood also, as do I, or more as those pathetic, rotting mendicants who wander the wastelands in search of death and destruction?"

Howler shook his head vehemently. "Nay!" he shouted, "I no mere God akin to _you_ , Laughing-One!" Abruptly, his demeanour shifted with the disturbing rapidity of the truly insane. The wrath melted away in an instant, leaving something sinister in its wake. Howler smiled wickedly, spoke softly; "clear to me now, it is, revealed stands truth… you see… I am…" he paused dramatically, before declaring; " _the Creator!_ "

As Jeb assimilated this alarming revelation, he sensed the One Power flaring about Howler, _saidin_ flowing into the extremely _mad_ Madman in a copious torrent… but despite this indication that he was about to be attacked with whichever deadly weaves his adversary saw fit to use, he was not overly concerned at the prospect. Howler was strong in the Power compared to some, but in comparison with the Laughing God… well, it would hardly be much of a contest. Even so, Jeb regretted the necessity of destroying the feral _Souvraniene_ … he had always quite _liked_ Howler, though was unsure why. Perhaps because the wild red-mask, though habitually smelling strongly of the kennels, at least was pleasingly taciturn, not constantly providing unasked-for opinions and observations. But all things changed...

"Well, Howler…" Jeb began to say.

" _Divine Creator_ , call me!" Howler angrily insisted.

Jeb grinned. "If _you're_ the Creator, then _I_ must be the Great Lord of the bloody Darkness!"

Howler gaped. "You are Dark One?" he enquired, in wonderment.

" _No!_ I was being ironic!" Jeb squinted over Howler's shoulder, commenting; "though in actual fact, I do believe that Shai'tan is standing just over there, looking at us…"

Howler blinked in surprise, turned to look… and the Laughing God promptly killed him. Afterwards, Jeb strode up the earthen ramp, stepping over the bloody shreds of the howling _Souvraniene_ that lay widely scattered about. The _larger_ pieces of Howler, at least… it was too much trouble to avoid the smaller bits, so Jeb did not bother. Whoever the other red-mask had been, was impossible to say… the corpse, caught in the blast, was rendered unrecognisable. That was the problem, when one used the Power to tear apart an adversary; it made such a _mess_ of everything.

"You cannot make an omelette without exploding a few eggs," Jeb muttered truculently, coming to a halt at the top of the earthen ramp, shaking his head in disbelief as he considered the success of his simple ruse… "I cannot believe that even someone as credulous as Howler fell for _that!_ " he mused. Attempting – but not quite succeeding – to dismiss the recent unfortunate events from his mind, Jeb's shrewd gaze took in the view. His unwilling eyes beheld much the same as that which he had seen from the glade previously, though of course, closer now. Jeb set out to see what he could find… if with little expectation of encountering anything fortuitous. After his ill experience with Howler, he found himself descending into a rather gloomy mood…

As Jeb approached a smouldering heap of charred timbers – the regretted ruin of a prized catapult – the smoke hanging in the still air grew thicker, intruding upon his lungs. Jeb coughed, spat, then drew the bronze fox-mask from a pocket of his Gleeman's cloak and pulled it down over his face, breathing a little easier within its confines. Through the holes set in the ancient Mask- _ter'angreal_ , Jeb's pale blue eyes scanned his surroundings. Unlike the scene of carnage within the earthworks, there was no indication of death up here; not a single corpse lay upon the scorched grass… and nary a hint of life in sight either, for that matter, nothing moved but himself. Jeb's confusion increased, in-tandem with a growing sense of disturbance and disquiet. He could almost imagine that he was being _watched_ …

" _Lord!_ " shouted a desperate voice. Jeb turned, swiftly reaching for the jagged blade sheathed at his belt. A skinny, fur-clad man emerged from the smoke, dark eyes staring wildly through his red, leathern mask, etched with a laughing mouth. Though by the sound of it, the _Souvraniene_ seemed in no mood for laughter; he was panting heavily, his panicked breathing indicative of the fact that he had run far and fast… and was _scared_. Jeb watched expectantly as the dishevelled Madman staggered toward him, pausing to regain his breath, bent forward, hands resting on his knees.

"Oh… hello there…" Jeb muttered absently, glancing around to see if there were any more of his followers about, any survivors at all… seemingly not. "Which one are you?" Jeb enquired. The red-mask, unable to answer, continued to struggle for breath, the smoke wreathed about them hindering his efforts, causing him to commence coughing also. "Take that mask off!" Jeb commanded, waving a hand and weaving a whirling column of wind to dispel the smoke in their vicinity. He used the last of the _saidin_ in his Well to do so… that remainder not expended by the powerful surge of Earth and Fire he had channeled to destroy Howler. The beaten copper storage _ter'angreal_ would need to be refilled, and soon… but Jeb had no present desire to engage in the struggle for dominance that seizing the One Power would entail. Not yet, at least…

The anonymous Madman straightened and yanked off his red mask, revealing a thin and unremarkable face, flushed and sweaty, the gaping, buck-toothed mouth gasping for air. Though the unprepossessing fellow looked familiar, Jeb did not immediately recognise him; but then, he had always possessed a poor memory for faces… and there _were_ rather a lot of his followers about these days, given the increase in those born with the spark, he could hardly be expected to remember them _all_. The _Souvraniene_ drew in a shuddering breath, then hoarsely declared; "it ith me, Bosth!"

Jeb blinked. " _Bosth?_ " he repeated, incredulously.

"Yeth! You should not be here, Lord… tith dangerouth!"

Realisation struck Jeb… there was but _one_ of his men who talked like _that!_ "Lisper, my boy!" he cried, grinning, "but of course it is you! Long time, no see!"

The skinny _Souvraniene_ nodded enthusiastically; "yeth Bosth, it ith I, Lithper… but-"

"Where in the Pit is _Singer?_ I want to know-" Jeb's mouth snapped shut and he started with surprise as Lisper abruptly cocked his head to one side, listening intently - then whirled, sweeping out a hand in a hurling motion, casting forth a hastily-summoned fireball! The blazing orb roared fiercely into the smoke, impacting against a large boulder. Flames leapt high, shattered rock-shards erupting all around. Lisper lowered his arm, peering about cautiously. "What are you _doing_ , Lisper?" Jeb angrily demanded, "are you taken by the bloody _Dragon?!_ "

Lisper blinked at Jeb annoyingly. "No, Lord… thought I heard thomething…"

"You'll hear the sound of one hand slapping the back of your empty skull if you do anything like that again!" Jeb growled, adding; "there could be more of our people out there… we don't want to roast them to a turn, do we?" Lisper looked doubtful, in addition to contrite, but nodded slowly. "Whither Singer?" Jeb reiterated, "I wish to be informed concerning what has become of my _k'jasic_ siege, and that warbling fool had _better_ provide a credible explanation, or… or I…" Jeb trailed-off.

Lisper was shaking his head back and forth dolefully. "Thinger ith _dead_ , Lord… your followerth hath fled or been thlain, only I alone thurvive!" His voice rose in volume, attaining a trace of hysteria; " _she killed them all!_ "

Through the eyeholes in his bronze, fox-faced mask, Jeb stared at Lisper in disbelief. "Dead?"

Lisper nodded cautiously, before venturing; "perhapth Howler yet liveth, but he ith inthane now, he thlew thome tholdiers… and then murdered Caller, when he tried to thtop him…"

"Oh, that was young Caller who Howler was dining on, was it? Pity… he had potential…"

"…Howler wath tho upthet about the wolveth killing hith dogth that I think it unhinged him and cauthed an epithode of-"

Jeb impatiently interrupted, recalling now what a _chore_ it was having to listen to Lisper _explain_ things! "Never mind about Howler, he's crow-bait… but the rest of the lads… _all_ dead?"

"Yeth! _All!_ We mutht leave thith plathe _now_ , or-"

"Hold! _Who_ killed them? Who would _dare?_ " Jeb felt wrath rising within him, a powerful urge to punish whomsoever was responsible for such a severe reverse in his fortunes. "This 'she' to whom you refer… who might that be?" In actuality, Jeb was certain he knew who was behind the mayhem, but it was best to be sure…

"The _Daemon_ … the Fox Queen! She aidth the Ogier, fighth for them!" Lisper blinked rapidly, sucked at his protruding front-teeth, then added; "and there are two more of their human allieth, they who thet the fireth… the Wolf-Witch and a warrior who may be one of the Hawk-folk… she ith an… an…" the skinny Madman took a deep breath, then with some difficulty managed to utter; " _athathin!_ "

"A _what?!_ "

"An… ath… ath…"

"Oh! Do you mean 'assassin' perhapth?"

"Yeth, Lord…"

Jeb realised what he had done, glared at Lisper furiously. " _Perhaps!_ " he pronounced distinctly, before grumbling; "curse it, now you've got _me_ doing it too!" He sighed, shaking his head. "Dear me, that impediment of yours actually seems to have got _worse_ since last we spoke…"

"Thorry!"

"Not your fault, Lisper, but _do_ try not to shower me with spittle quite so much… now, what of the rest?"

"Retht, Bosth?"

"Turn to the side a little, when you speak. Yes, Lisper… my _soldiers?_ Remember _them?_ "

Lisper shook his head reluctantly. "They are gone, Lord, routed, there wath a battle to the wetht, the Treebrotherth came out of the thtedding in forth-"

"Forth?"

"Forth!"

"Oh, _force_ … I see… pray continue, Lisper."

"Yeth, Lord, thank-you. The Ogier attacked and defeated your armthmen, drove off the thurvivorth, purthued them into the foretht…"

"What of the slaves?" Jeb's voice took on a hopeful note; "dead also?"

"Only thome, Lord, the remainder abthconded, they ran away…"

Jeb sighed. "So, in other words, it looks as though we can count this one as something of a _loss?_ " Lisper blinked slowly, wisely electing not to attempt answering what was presumably a rhetorical question. "Come along," Jeb growled, striding away, muttering vengefully; "I am not going to bloody-well take _this_ lying down!"

Lisper hurried after his Laughing God, dark eyes darting about fearfully. "Where are we going, Lord?" he gasped, managing to avoid any 's' words for once.

"We go to Stedding Dashai…"

"W-why?"

"To turf those pompous, tree-singing birds out of their nests, of course! The arcane atmosphere of the _stedding_ won't stop me, for I have a Well- _ter'angreal_ , Lisper, more potent far than the one I gave to Singer…" Jeb stopped and turned; "you are certain sure he is dead?"

" _Very_ dead! I thaw Thinger's corpth! Hith throat wath thlithed!"

" _Sliced?_ "

"Yeth!"

"You could have just said 'cut' you know… oh well. Too bad… not the nicest of people, was Singer… but he _did_ have perfect pitch. I shall miss his fine voice, if not his poisonous personality…" Jeb stroked the chin of his bronze fox-face thoughtfully; "any sign of that Well I gave to him? A medallion, Power-wrought of black iron…"

Lisper shook his head. "We thearched for it, Lord, but it wath taken by hith killer, theemingly…"

"Curses! Those things are hard to come by… oh well…" Jeb turned, heading for Stedding Dashai once more, "enough chatter! Let's torch some trees!"

" _But Bosth_ …"

Jeb whirled around angrily, glaring at Lisper, who quailed. Glowing, guttering timbers, wreathed in wisps of smoke, lay spread all around them, though no signs of life, but for themselves. "Stick to _Lord_ , since it contains no sibilants! What is it _now?_ "

Lisper lowered his impedimented voice cautiously; "Lord, the Daemon-Queen of Foxeth… she may thtill be about… there ith _danger!_ "

Jeb sneered. "Speak-not of ought that is _dangerous_ , not to me! I have returned intact from Shayol Ghul, fought in the armies of the Dragon King, faced-down the Red Ajah and even survived the bloody _Ways!_ Think-you the Laughing God is afeared of some vulpine abomination, an _Eelfinn_ half-breed, the dregs of Sindhol? Danger, say-you? Hah!" Jeb turned on his heel and stomped away.

Lisper hesitated, then scuttled nervously after. "What courthe of action do you mean to take, Lord?" he breathlessly wondered.

Jeb's answer was brief and to the point; "I am going to _burn_ Stedding Dashai to cinders, as Singer and the rest of you incompetents so singularly failed to do!" Jeb smiled nastily. "And I shall _enjoy_ doing so… you see; I don't _like_ Ogier!"

Lisper's aggravating voice spoke from further behind; "you hath mentioned thith antipathy before, Lord... but have a care, for the athathin and wolfgirl may be- _urk!_ "

Jeb blinked. "May be urk?" he repeated to himself, wonderingly, then glanced back to demand of Lisper his meaning. He stared. The skinny _Souvraniene_ lay flat upon the grass, face-down. For an instant, Jeb wondered if he had tripped… but the fallen Madman made no attempt to rise, nor any movement at all. It was only then that Jeb noticed how Lisper's head was twisted at an unnatural, fatal angle… he was quite dead. Jeb glanced warily about, glimpsing nothing within the smoky environs.

Immediately, if reluctantly, Jeb seized the True Source, but for once the struggle to maintain control over those raging forces did not seem so great an ordeal… raw _saidin_ flowed into him, a cataract of the One Power's male aspect, magnified considerably by the golden-handed _sa'angreal_ secured within his Gleeman's cloak. It felt marvellous to be suffused with such an essence… but also; horrendous. Jeb could feel the chaotic consequences of holding so much _saidin_ mounting inexorably, the entropy inherent in being connected to the unstable and Tainted half of the True Source beginning to overwhelm him… hastily, he refilled his Well- _ter'angreal_ with all the Power that it could hold, well-knowing that he might not be afforded another such opportunity.

His eyesight made keener by the potency that filled him, Jeb suspiciously continued to search his surroundings, but saw no sign of any hidden enemy. The thick smoke lingered all around, reducing visibility. With a stark sensation of both loss and gain – strength exchanged for stability – Jeb released the Source. He staggered as a wave of dizziness swept through him, his vision doubling, but these ill-effects soon wore off. Jeb took a deep breath, attempting to calm his mind and body. Frowning with cautious confusion, he then considered the situation… whoever – or _whatever_ – killed Lisper had been fast, very fast, coming out of the smoke to snap the hapless Madman's neck before disappearing back into the haze with equally alarming rapidity. Unnaturally swift… Why, then, had they not attacked him also? Jeb thought he knew the reasoning behind this apparent oversight… the killer was making a _point._ Toying with him…

The Laughing God smiled grimly. _This_ , he could understand… he liked to play games with his foes also, and even more than that, loved to _win_. Deadly contests for supremacy, imaginative ways to triumph over a mortal enemy, satisfyingly poetic victories to relieve the boredom of an unnaturally extended existence. Even so… the unseen presence that hunted him, which was undoubtedly watching their prey from the cover of the smoky fog right now… they had made a mistake. The killer should have attempted his death when they had the chance. They would _not_ get another…

 _so you wish to_ play _, do you? well, now it is_ my _turn!_

Within the fox-mask, Jeb's savage smile faded as he looked upon Lisper's corpse with faint regret. But he had lived amongst death in all of its cruel aspects for so long, it barely affected him anymore. He reached down, tugged the bronze torc- _ter'angreal_ from about the slain red-mask's crooked neck, stuffing it into a pocket. "You had an irritating manner of speech," Jeb told the dead _Souvraniene_ , "in fact, you were a rather irritating person, irregardless. But you made for a loyal and faithful servant… and there was no malice in you. Be at peace, Lisper."

"He was the last." The clear, cultured voice echoed out of the pall of smoke, emanating from no direction that Jeb could readily identify. "I sought him since yester-eve. Your Madmen are all accounted for, now. I have hunted-down and slain every one."

Jeb noted that the unseen killer spoke the Old Tongue in an antique mode that he had not heard the like of in a very long time, since his days at Davian's Royal Court. Though the cadences of this ancient speech sounded more venerable even than that... seemingly, he was actually hearing the language of the Age of Legends itself! In addition; there was a decidedly throaty quality to these sophisticated, taunting tones, a growling, snarling note that set the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright…

" _All?_ I actually slew one myself," Jeb argumentatively declared.

An eerie, yipping sound emerged from the smoky occlusion… it took Jeb a moment to identify it as _laughter._ " _That_ howling psychotic?! The blood-drenched, cannibalistic dog-man? I let him be, since he abetted my purpose, only adding to the chaos." A brief pause, then the voice pointedly added; "I _favour_ chaos!"

"As do I," Jeb concurred.

This statement was ignored. "Now, there is just you, Scion of _Souvraniene_."

Jeb snorted disparagingly, the noise echoing within his bronzed fox's face. "You shall find me more challenging prey than my men, your Highness! Show yourself, do!" Silence greeted this invitation for a pregnant pause in the proceedings… then in response; something moved in the smoke, stalking forward with lithe grace. The shape resolved itself into a tall and slender maiden, pale of skin, clad in loose black trews and shirt, feet bare. Those toes, her fingers also, bore long, claw-like nails. Jeb's gaze rose to her face. The palest eyes he had ever seen, large and lustrous, watching him intently. A russet mane of hair, swept back into a crest, revealing slightly pointed ears. Clearly; not human. Inhuman.

"I am no Queen," the predatory female announced, as she halted a dozen paces away from Jeb, hands arranged on slim hips, adding menacingly; "so call me not _Highness!_ " Sharp, carnivore's teeth flashed betwixt full lips as she spoke.

Jeb smiled mockingly, for all that his face was hidden, the expression going unseen. "Oh, but all modesty aside, verily you _are_ Royalty, my dear…" he bowed, fluttering the patches of his Gleeman's cloak exuberantly. "I am honoured to meet you at last, Fox Queen!"

"Huh! My use-name is Feir… Feir-called-Fourthborn." Feir smiled slyly. "And given that you claim Godhood, I would suppose the honour to be all mine…" Jeb shrugged, continuing to surreptitiously smile. Feir's unearthly eyes narrowed. "Though you do not appear to have much to laugh about _now_ , Laughing God…"

Jeb's smile widened behind the mask. "Considering recent events, I am in no mood for mirth, presently… perhaps later. After all; ' _he who laughs last_ …'"

" _Laughs longest?_ " Feir's upper lip curled with contempt. "Your laughing days are over, tyrant. But before your timely demise, answer me this one question…"

"Which is?"

Feir scowled, pointing a clawed nail accusingly. "What in the Nine Hells do you think you are doing, wearing Uncle Gwili's damn Fox-Mask?!"

Jeb's brow furrowed. "Uncle… Gwili..?"

"Yes! Gwilimin Sedai! The Leafwright! Uncle Gwili _never_ let anyone else wear his precious Mask- _ter'angreal_ , not even _me!_ So how came _you_ by it, despot?"

Jeb shrugged. "Well… if you must know, I found this bronzed fox-face a goodly time ago… hid deep beneath Hob's Hill. I think-me it was your mysterious Uncle who yet wore the mask, but since he had clearly been dead long years, I did not believe he would mind if-"

"Grave-robber!"

"Not-so! 'Twas no _tomb_ I found him interred in, he sat seated in a chair, this 'uncle' of yours, whoever he was… an Aes Sedai of the Age of Legends, I presume? And I expect that he would have wanted me to have the _ter'angreal_ , in any case…"

" _Liar!_ "

"…and _this_ , also!" Jeb swept the golden hand from his cloak, pointing the extended index finger at his accuser. "Ha-hah!" he cried, then felt a little foolish.

Feir stared, pale eyes widening in surprise. "Father's _sa'angreal_ too! _Thief!_ " Those disconcerting eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What _else_ have you stole from my kin?"

"Nothing!" Jeb denied, then considered. "Well, there _was_ that silver horn…"

Feir blinked. "Horn? What damned horn?" She glared at Jeb in frustration. "Enough! I might have known it would prove a waste of time speaking to you, Laughing God, or whatever your true name is…"

"Call me Jeb!"

" _Jeb?_ Seriously?" Jeb nodded in mute affirmation, the fox-mask tilting up and down. Feir sighed, shaking her head slowly, long russet hair whisking against her shoulders. "Well, 'Jeb,' you two-faced fibber in your garish, clownish cloak…"

"I be no clown! A Master Gleeman, am I!"

Feir's brow furrowed. "A… glee… man?"

" _Master_ Gleeman, if you please!"

"What is that? Is it like a Bard?"

"Certainly not!" Jeb objected, offended. He had played the Bard in his time, of course, but that had merely been idle pretence… Gleemanry was his _true_ calling.

Feir shrugged, uncaring. "Yes… well… anyway, Laughing Jeb, since you are clearly madder than a Maighdal Hare, I believe that I shall converse with you no further, for the sake of my mental stability…" she took a stalking, threatening step forward, "…I have been meaning to put an end to you and your villainy for some time now…" another footstep, "…and good things oft come to those who wait." A final step; Feir was now within pouncing range of her prey. "Time to die, _Souvraniene._ "

"I think not." Accessing his Well- _ter'angreal_ , Jeb channeled. Instantly, a wall of fierce flames sprang from the ground about him, encircling the Laughing God in a protective ring of burning, orange fire. Feir snarled with rage and warily backed away, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the blazing barrier. She looked angered… but _most_ uncomfortable, also. "Your people do not care for fire, do they?" Jeb commented.

Feir stared furiously at Jeb through the scorching shield he had summoned, her face twisting with distaste at the proximity of the flickering flames. " _I_ don't like fires one bit," she hissed, "but I _have_ no people… my race is Lightborn; but for my Brother, I am _unique!_ "

"What of the _Eelfinn_ , the Foxes who prowl the endless halls of Sindhol?" Jeb conjectured, "are _they_ not your close kin?"

"Of course not!" Feir spat, her gaze reluctantly lingering upon the fiery circle, "you will find that I have little in common with _those_ wicked creatures!"

"That remains to be seen." Jeb considered… "The Fox-Daemons, then? Your precursors… their descendants… _whatever_ they are. The savage creatures who first named you Queen?"

Feir sniffed disapprovingly. "I claim even _less_ kinship with _those_ debased monstrosities, I am certainly _not_ their Queen, _they_ may fear fire but I do not, since I fear nothing!" Feir took a deep breath, crouching beyond the blazing wall, clearly forcing herself to remain even this close to the hated, burning light. "I just don't much _like_ it, that is all," she muttered, before her pale and predatory eyes fixed upon Jeb, a promise of dread retribution in that cold stare. Despite himself, he shivered.

"How have you summoned this horrid blaze?" Feir demanded suspiciously, "by all rights, my aura should have disrupted your…" she paused, blinked her large eyes slowly, then hissed; "you have a _Well_ , don't you?!" Jeb nodded solemnly, the smiling fox-face tilting again, then pulled up his coat to reveal the serpentine belt-buckle, wrought in copper, tinged with greenish corrosion. Feir examined the ancient _ter'angreal_ , sneering. "I've not seen one like _that_ before," she commented, raising her pale gaze back to Jeb, glaring at him reprovingly through the detested, intervening flames. "It could use a good cleaning," she pointed-out, "and anyway, what of it? So your snaky _saidin_ -store is a way around my ability to prevent you from touching the Source… 'tis but a temporary measure. Finite, whereas my patience is-"

" _Infinite?_ " Jeb interjected, sarcastically.

Feir smiled coldly. "I wouldn't go quite _that_ far… but you might be surprised by how long I can wait, to get what I _want_." Again, that sly, vulpine smile. "Your grotty old buckle is only a _well_ , fool… and wells eventually dry-up!"

"As do those who _talk_ too much!" Jeb responded, "inevitably, they run-out of things to say…"

Feir ignored this barb. "You cannot channel this vile, fiery shield into being forever," she hissed, "and after it is extinguished, when you may no longer hide behind your cowardly flames, I shall come for you, Laughing God, slowly drain you of every drop of _saidin_ … and then snuff-out your pitiful life even slower than _that!_ "

Jeb reached up, raising his fox-mask to the top of his head, revealing his pallid face, his crafty smile. "I am sure you shall," he allowed, before cheerily adding; "but might the doomed chicken be permitted a final request of his foxy nemesis?"

Feir smiled faintly, then shrugged. "I care not. Ask-away, little chick!"

Jeb bowed again, taking the opportunity to slide a hand behind his Gleeman's cloak. "My thanks, Majesty, you are gracious indeed…" He straightened, lips twitching; "my requirement is that you listen most attentively to _this!_ " And with that, Jeb unslung the lute from his back, where it had lain hidden beneath colourful, patched cloth. As the burning barrier began to dissipate, Jeb grinned wildly, raising the instrument, fingers moving to strings and frets with swift, practiced ease.

Feir's eyes widened with alarm, her mouth falling open in dismay, sharp teeth flashing as she cried; " _no!_ That's _not fair!_ " She attempted to flee beyond the range of the lute's sound, springing back, but it was too late… Jeb's fingers danced over the strings, picking out a complicated melody with a rapid tempo. At the same time, he slipped into the rustic, Vulgar speech and loudly sang;

" _The Queen of Foxes came to town,_

 _bought an ale and drank it down,_

 _poured another for her brother –_

 _so they might their sorrows drown!"_

"Damn you!" moaned Feir, her feet stumbling, habitual grace deserting her as she staggered, "curse y-" she yawned widely, raising a long-nailed hand demurely to her mouth to cover the bared incisors. Her eyelids growing heavy and drooping, she swayed as the music wrought its soporific effect upon her. Jeb continued to play and accompany himself with raucous song, launching into the next verse with gusto;

" _The King of Cats quaffed mighty deep_

 _afore too long began to weep;_

 _told his sister that he'd missed her -_

 _too late, she were fast asleep!"_

Feir sank to the ground, yawning extravagantly. As she curled onto her side, pale eyes sliding shut, she managed to mumble; "devious… _troubadour!_ You… _cheated!_ " Feir closed her eyelids tightly, falling swiftly into a sound slumber, her steady breathing gradually slowing to the rhythms of deep sleep. Jeb continued to strum his lute all the while, though ceased the singing. There was another verse – he had composed this simple drinking-song especially for the Fox Queen some time ago, as a precaution should they ever meet – but Jeb did not think he need give voice to any further words. The music alone seemed to have accomplished its hypnotic effect.

Still playing, Jeb let the final, flickering flames die down, then stepped over to the sleeping Feir, examining her carefully, just in case she was faking… but no, her comatose state proved quite genuine. With a flourish, Jeb brought the rendition to a close, though kept his lute handy, should the sleeping Fourthborn abruptly wake.

"You're more _Eelfinn_ than you like to pretend, my dear," Jeb softly told his entranced captive, "since that ballad knocked you out every bit as fast as with your accursed cousins, the Foxes!" He grinned triumphantly; " _faster_ , if anything!" Jeb's grin faded slightly, his brow furrowing. "Troubadour..?" he muttered. _That_ was a word he had not heard in a long time. They were musicians of the Age of Legends, he distantly recalled, cultural forerunners of Bards and Gleemen… well, he could always ask Feir about Troubadours later, when they were safely back in Larcheen.

Jeb had a great deal of questions for his prisoner, in fact, and there would just about be enough time to ask them… World enough, and Time. At least, until the Laughing God seized his destiny with both hands, and broke _both!_ Jeb smiled widely, baring his teeth, insanity flickering behind his eyes like an incipient fever.

Jeb yet maintained access to the _saidin_ in his Well, and since there was just enough of the Power left for his purposes, channeled the same complicated weave he had cast back at the Castle of the Hawx. Had that only been half a day ago? It had. A gateway to _Tel'aran'rhiod_ promptly opened nearby, a silvery line rotating into a rectangular portal, hanging in the smoky air. Jeb glanced toward the _stedding_ , recalling that he had been planning to reduce it to ash… but then shrugged. "I'll do it later," he muttered, "if I remember to…"

Slinging the antique lute on his back, Jeb stooped and lifted the unconscious Feir, surprised by how heavy she was, given her slim build. He was strong for his size, however, and managed well-enough. As he approached the gateway, his dormant burden cradled carefully in his arms, Jeb commented; "well now… _that_ went a lot smoother than ever I thought it would…"

For some reason, this struck the Laughing God as amusing… so as he stepped through the portal, bearing his unearthly hostage, quitting the World of the Wheel for the World of Dreams, he lived up to his name - as well as his promise - and _laughed_ , long and loud... and _last_.

* * *

 _RIP Syed the Darkparrot… his demise was... poignant..._

 _GB_


End file.
